Nothingness

December

2011-12-15T07:37:00.000-06:00

Like transparent pearls
strung
along dark branches,
the winter rain
clings
to bare limbs,
stark
denuded of leaves,
but dressed this morning
with tiny baubles
nature's own ornaments
temporary holiday hints
on a rainy day
out of season.

How I love winter now!
My own season,
dusk arriving
sometimes before dinner,
darkness
cozy around me
like extra bedding
in the morning -
evening
of my life.

The Capstone of Holiness

2011-07-20T15:27:00.004-05:00

Father Alexander is leavingus. As it turns out, we will be getting a long goodbye. A famous Oxford-educatedscholar and Eastern Orthodox monk, he has had a profound effect on me. In the form of one of his writings: Liturgy and Mysticism. Andin his very Presence. Both together actually. For his writing is ofa piece with his Personal Presence.

Archimandrite Alexander Golitzin

He'll leave his Presence with us. And I think every Vespers, every Liturgywill bear a trace of this man, whose Humilityis the most powerful image that will always stay with me. This scruffy monk, sittingalone (in prayer) in the back of our very modest worship space. Or serving. For when he moves, he moves as a servant. And he takesthe tasks of a servant. Carrying the cross or the censor. Lightinglamps. Setting out bread and wine on the small table for aftercommunion. His sonorous voice praying the words as he servescommunicants: The servant of God …. receives thePrecious Body and Blood of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Hehas a way of saying that which is so prayerful. Slowly. Meaningeach word. Like a Mantra. Like the Jesus Prayer.

He's going to be consecrated Bishop. I am very moved by that. By the thought of this Servant Bishop.

WhenI first met him, I already knew him. Was already grateful to him. For his own words had already sunk deep into my heart. Reading his Liturgy and Mysticismhad shown me howpersonal spiritual growth went hand in hand with the Liturgy. Wereone and the same. The inner and the outer of a piece. Like the keyto a puzzle in my heart.

Maybeyou know what a capstone(or keystone) is:

It's the stone at the top of an arch. You erectthe two sides of the arch until they almost meet. And then, in themiddle, you place a stone whose weight bears down on both sides atonce – joining them and making your arch sturdy. So it can'tcollapse.

FatherAlexander, I feel sure, would not want me writing laudatory thingsabout him. Yet I am lauding his lowliness. Not the worldly fame I'msure he has.

Humility issurely the capstone of the spiritual life. And humility is thecharacteristic, I think, that most describes Fr. Alexander – soonto be known by a new name as Bishop.

Taste and See:

Liturgy and Mysticism:
The Experience of God in Eastern Orthodox Christianity. Part I

Liturgy and Mysticism:
The Experience of God in Eastern Orthodox Christianity. Part II

Nothingness ... Transcended

2011-06-30T09:14:00.002-05:00

Alan sent me this lovely haunting photo. It speaks to me of so much.

Spare a Prayer ~ for Alan.

A long time ago, when I was teaching young children, there was a workshop which included the task of deciding what to put on one's tombstone. Now, actually I don't want a tombstone. I don't feel a need to live on that way. I would be content to fade into obscurity.

Till that day, I really hadn't done much thinking about my own death. Though I've always liked what I came up with: She lived nowhere.

I like the word-play in nowhere. There's no where (as in the Son of Man had "no place" to lay his head ) and now here (which I think of as living in the present moment). I saw the shifting meanings at once.   That was part of the appeal.

It's fascinating what emerges unbidden from the unconscious.

Alan thought I'd like this photo.   I do!   How wonderful that he caught this moment. In time. And out of time.

Choices are like mirrors.   They hint at what we stand for. And what we yearn for.   Who we are and who we might become.

How many times can a heart break?

2011-06-22T10:32:00.011-05:00

When itcomes to forgiveness, we are told to forgive 70 x 7. It's a numberlost in translation.

But howmany times will our hearts be broken? How many times can a heart bearbreaking? Do I even need to put upone link? Do I need toappend a bibliography of sadism, sexual abuse, misuse of power,cover-ups, denial, pretense of piety by predators? Castigate me ifyou will, but I simply cannot bear to do so! Already this blog hasmore than enough posts recounting my own prior efforts to understand,put into prose or verse, the suffering I'vesought to heal, lift up, to bear, transcend.

My heart is breaking yet again. Yet again this stormy morning - foryoung men abused in Tanzania and in Britain and in Kansas (City) – where“somewhere over the rainbow” never came.

Myheart is breaking because I cannot even mention these latest horrors(or the church) in my own home. For I live in a household with elderly Mr. TheraP whose physical abuse by two priests in a small Europeanvillage, over 60 years ago, leaves him still so emotionally raw, sotroubled at each further revelation, he cannot hear more,strives to avoid. It's the under-reporting, not just the reporting. Self-censorship. For how many times can a broken heartbreak?

My heart is breaking because of all the stories and the people I'vetried to help over the years. Those abused by priests, by therapists,by parents, siblings, neighbors, school crossing-guards. Childrenturned into prostitutes or photo shoots by parents, by anypredator who got ahold of them. Ferried around at night to God knowswhere for the child knew not. Ferried in trunks of cars. Leftin corners awaiting the unknown. Mentally trying to escape into otherselves, feeling themselves shrinking into nothingness,disappearing into walls or objects.

My heart is breaking because of adults preyed upon by clergy. By thefall-out for parishioners when they learn the trusted pastor hasharmed someone – and it might have been them. When that means theirchild who needed guidance has been “guided” by a predator. Whenall harmed feel doubly harmed when a legal process seeks to lay barethe life and soul of anyone whose heart has already been broken toomany times.

My heart is breaking at the failure of shepherds. Theself-protection of partners in power, EcclesiasticalBullies. At the failure of law enforcement, of legislatures, of nations torturing their own citizens.

Dear God, has it no end? T.S. Eliot said it better than I: “Whereis the end of it, the soundless wailing...?”

My heart is breaking because these tortured souls' unbearableemotions end up exposing even their therapists to a kind of torture,a mental suffering, vicariously traumatizing even the strongest, mostcaring among us. Yes, we willingly undergo something like acrucifixion on their behalf. And the Love of God pours through oursuffering hearts. Hopefully into theirs. Into their broken heartsdevoid of trust. Even for those who suffer on their behalf.

Dear God, the ground of our beseeching is breaking beneath us. As we pray from a place of utter extremity.

One Foot - Stuck in the Muck

2011-06-12T20:03:00.015-05:00

I wrote this elsewhere a bit over a year ago....

When I was a kid in the '50's - yes, I'm dating myself - all kids had real rubber boots for rainy days. The kind of boots that fit over your shoes. Boots that had to be strong enough to weather your walk to school - which, in our case, was a bit longer than a mile. Catholics had to walk. Public schoolers got bussed!

I remember one day, walking home, having to cross what seemed like a field of mud. Probably it wasn't that big, but neither was I. And one foot got stuck! One boot rather. I couldn't pull my foot out without also pulling the shoe. But to do that would have meant having to put that foot - plus shoe - smack into the same mud. Not a workable solution. Not if I wanted to wear that shoe tomorrow.

Plus, once one boot is stuck, it's so easy to get the other one stuck too. Now, to be honest, I am truly not certain how this story ended. I just recall the dilemma of being maybe 8 years old. Learning what I'm just now telling you. With one foot stuck in the muck, trying to pull it out, trying to figure out what to do. I suspect I learned not to take a short-cut, not if it meant crossing a muddy field, cuz Catholics had to walk...

Or I thought I'd learned that.

But just yesterday I realized that even though I have "left" the Catholic Church with one foot, I am still stuck in Catholic Church muck with the trailing foot. Thankfully, I didn't just leave - without first finding an island of sanity and spiritual sustenance (a church "for all people"). So at least I'm not stuck in mud with both feet! Nevertheless the catholic muck seems to have such a hold over this one foot, like the boot like I had as a child (I think it was a red boot). A foot which is very stuck. Because there is just so much muck.

I'm pretty sure I'm not the only person, who has left what we were taught in childhood was the Church - only to find in this current crisis which is shaking the RCC to its very foundations, a big ache in one's heart, a breaking heart really, for all the innocent victims, all the other good people who are collateral damage to a hierarchy more bent on self-protection than vigilance to protect the innocent. The reason I'm pretty sure is that right here at TPM some people have admitted as much. And many who profess no adherence to any church are suddenly admitting they are upset at what's going on in "their" church. It actually reminds me of people I've known who don't believe in god - till they find themselves in a jam, needing to pray hard! This situation is the opposite, of course, or maybe not.

Maybe the concern of people like myself, who no longer identify as catholic, for the church of their youth or their schooling, has to do with a genuine desire to see a wayward institution find its way home - to the values they were taught, values they still believe in. Values they feel are too often missing in today's world. Values they need to see in people - leaders, especially.

So if some wonder how come I'm stuck in the RC muck, it's not because I'm sitting at home full of personal rage - just looking for a target, and having found one, continuing to rage and rage. It's because I believe this institution, the Roman Catholic Church, is part of something larger and is failing to live up to its high calling. And I'm just counting all the ways....

Holy Mystery: In Search of Us

2011-02-19T12:40:00.008-06:00

One thing I have learned through experience:

There moves a loving presence,

Holy Mystery,

Glow of Love,

Compassionate Heart of the Cosmos,

in search of us.

The simple message of Christ: "Come to Me." Runs through all creation. Is written in the stars. Inscribed in our own hearts.

It is the heart of every prayer. Spoken or Unspoken. Of every spiritual path authentically sought or followed. Inspired sacred words and books reach out.

This Love-Search, whose compassion is so far beyond our comprehension, so near and humble as to beg and bid us welcome - if we only grant a moment's pure attention - has no boundaries. No deserving. No evasion can outrun it. No sin outwit it.

Doesn't matter whether you agree with me or not. For like water seeping into every crevice, this message invades each cell, runs through every vein, tingles every neuron. Nudges us at every moment.

Rejoice! Or weep. Fall on your knees. Or hold out hands of supplication.

"Come to Me."

Learn humility. Learn compassion. Pass it on.

The Church of my Childhood

2010-11-30T11:14:00.012-06:00

It was a small church, whose memory has become a part of me.

It was one of those intimate churches with Gothic arches in the windows and maybe up above - but I just recall a feeling of peace. And that feeling is not connected with any ritual or public prayer.

It was a time when churches could be left open. When children were encouraged by the nuns "to make a visit" - even to cross themselves when walking in front of the church. But especially to stop in, on their own, and visit God. I have no idea if other children took that advice. And thankfully no one ever wanted a record of such visits, like librarians wanted a record of the books we read - a book report.

So it was the church itself and the freedom, the peace, the quiet, the non-demanding atmosphere of being there all alone - with God. In the presence of this Mystery. That had a powerful impact upon a child who was all too constrained at home and at school and during enforced stillness and obedience of Mass, Rosaries, Benediction, Stations of the Cross, Confessions (oh, dear God, the things I made up to get through that!), and other stuff we had to do - because we were catholic and if we did it all - perfectly - we wouldn't go to hell like every one else. (Or so they scared us.)

So here was this place of pregnant stillness and mystery. And if you went there - all alone - you weren't really alone and not only that, the real God who did forgive if you just said you were sorry was somehow there - in a protective way, in a quiet, holy way which left me free. Free - as no other place seemed to be - except the woods - also a place of mystery, freedom, peace (where I sometimes said mass on the Old Tree Stump). Because the church was unlocked, I could stop in on the way home from school. Or on my trips back and forth to the library. Walking, mind you. Walking a mile with a pile of books is not easy when you're 7 or 8, nor at 9 or 10! So a rest stop must have been very enticing at times: The peace there. The lack of adult scrutiny. My own "conversation" with God instead of rote prayers.

Entering the church, one's eyes adjusting to the dimness, candles flickering faintly in the distance, there was the familiar holy water font - which should mean fountain, for flowing. And I did once see one flowing like a fountain - overflowing really, right into a Baptismal pool (the size and shape exactly of a coffin), with steps going down into it. When I saw that, less than 10 years ago, it hit me like a powerful shock of deep meaning - which gave me to understand the very Mystery of Baptism. It hit me like a thunderclap! Instant understanding. Tears flowed. So deeply did that understanding flow from.

Now, within the Orthodox Church, I have come to see even more of this Mystery. Theophany, the Blessing of Water, the plunging of the Cross into the Water. Three times plunged. Three times raised high. By our priest. In solemn silence. Exactly as he does when baptizing a baby. The Baptism of Christ and our Baptism. The dying and the rising - together. Yes, my own heart has been deeply plunged and is now immersed in these Mysteries.

So here was I. Ages 7, 8, 9, 10.... Till we moved. In these two places where God's abiding Presence was available to me. I'm not sure I understood, till recently, how the woods functioned that way too. But I certainly felt it those times I visited God's Presence in church. Alone. Tiny child, as I look back - even in the modest church. An architecture which spoke of mystery. The holy water on entry. Tiny candles flickering in the darkness, filtered daylight flowing through stained glass. The sanctuary behind its communion rail. Red flickering candle signifying God's Presence. Side altars for St. Joseph (on the left) and Mary (on the right).

I tended to light my candles in front of St. Joseph - his altar seemed neglected in favor of Mary, so I gave him the attention he seemed to lack from others. Just as I came to regard the Holy Spirit as God's neglected Person, when it came to people's devotion. So I adopted the Spirit too, you could say. Of course it was the other way around! But I didn't really understand that part yet.

And around the sanctuary, there were words written. Words that surrounded the round space there. Words it took me a long time to figure out. For they were written in this fancy script. Capital letters, each one so fancy it was hard to parse their import as a "letter" - to be divined. A message to be worked out over time: Lord, I love the beauty of your house. The place where your glory dwells. Yes!

Those words entered into me. I saw them so many times. I must have memorized them quite by accident - as gradually, the place and its beauty entered into my heart and soul. I didn't yet understand the glory dwelling within me too. But that was part of where it started.

At some point I discovered the holy water dispensary, where you could get some for yourself. I wanted that. Had nothing to put it in. Found an old discarded wine bottle or liquor bottle outside somewhere. I filled it up. Carried it home. It must have been quite a sight for passing motorists! ;) No recollection left beyond the carrying. Not sure it ever was saved on my behalf - given how it had arrived, likely smelling of alcohol I'm sure.

Once when I was sick, and listening to the radio... maybe the time I had chicken pox? I heard these words, as if addressed to me personally:

Come to Me all you who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.

Those words entered into me as well. Somehow I either came to memorize them or they were so powerful they simply stayed with me. Words of comfort, which I think made so much more of an impact, given that everything else (except for endless prayers of the Rosary) was in Latin! It was likely a protestant preacher on the radio. But it felt as if Jesus was speaking directly to me. As if those words of Jesus were calling to me, drawing me. And I was prompted to consider my situation. Here I was in a house, with clothing, attending school, fed, kept warm. I felt blessed. I really understood that. But scared at the same time. Come to Me... Take my yoke. Those words were a comfort but also a summons - one that scared me as a small child: What would God ask of me one day, I wondered. Where was this leading? Would I be up to it?

The Paradox of Believing

2010-10-09T16:35:00.011-05:00

Where are you from? That's a question I've never really been able to answer. People always ask you that when you're new. Maybe you never noticed. Unless you moved a lot. As I did. Eventually, by my mid-thirties or so, I simply started answering "from the womb". It was true. It was a short answer. It turned the question upside down.

There were two moves that were easy. One was going to college, when just about everyone had arrived from somewhere else. The other was in high school because it turned out just about everyone's dad worked for the government in some aspect of guided missiles. I have to say it was the most wonderful experience to meet people who had lived all over. Military brats have that experience all the time. But I really only had it that once - fitting in easily, everyone open to new friendships, knowing what it was to be the "new kid" in a new school.

Fortunately I was blessed with an ability to make friends easily. But that did not make it easy to be uprooted and plunked down yet again, every few years. By the second grade, I'd moved 7 times and been in 3 different schools. In the fifth grade we moved yet again. Eighth grade, same thing. Three high schools. And the longest time in a single school was college. Also my final graduate degree.

There are pluses and minuses to being a nomad. For one thing you learn that rules for games might be different in different places. You find this out the hard way. Accents, of course, are also different. Indeed whatever accent you arrive with marks you as different. A sensitive child, as I was, quickly comes to empathize with anyone else who's on the outside, looking in. So as I think back I can see that I always reached out to those on the fringes, those who were bashful or new or felt excluded. I'd been there - I knew how painful that was.

By and large I think all of this taught me both compassion and acceptance. There was never really a chance to become exclusive - even if my church taught that to some degree. I knew people attended different churches and had different customs for holidays or ways of making recipes or rules for games they played. Schools marched to different drummers. Families and homes were unique - and I could see how that affected the children who grew up in them. Once I even knew someone who lived in an orphanage.

So, as I say, there was never really a chance to become exclusive. Even when I knew I belonged to a group or a church or a club, even when I gathered that those things were somehow interpreted by others to exclude me, the drawing of boundaries or the view that the other side of the fence was one to be avoided never really entered into my character. As I think back I guess I was more interested in simply getting to know where people were coming from in a psychological sense.   What they thought. What they believed. How they viewed the world, themselves. I have no idea how many other people sat around and talked about such things in high school. But I sure did. College, same thing.

All of this is partly like groundwork I'm laying for where I'm going with this post.

I was always very interested in religion. I suspect I had a firm sense of God as Real in my life - from very early on. I suspect, as well, that this offered me a kind of stability in the midst of so many changes growing up. And I'm not talking "church" really. I'm talking a sense of God as mattering - or even deeper - a sense of mattering to God. Which is pretty amazing for a kid - now that I think on it. In fact to some degree it amazed me that my own parents seemed less aware of this, less attentive to it, than I was.   Though Judy's family surely was aware, and their daily lives made that evident (the keeping of Kosher, the lighting of candles, the fact that religion, for them, was part of family life).   In my own way I guess I let God - as a Reality - become part of my life. As a child God seemed most Real to me when I was alone in an empty church. Empty of people, but full of God's Presence. God was also very, very real to me in the woods. Indeed, I think nature, for me, was always infused with a sense of God's Presence from my earliest years. And later on as well.

After those years when I was introduced to Judaism (by Judy's family - from about ages 7 to 11), everywhere I moved I was fascinated with the religion or denomination of other people. I was especially interested not in what the churches preached, but in what people thought or felt - their inward experience of this Sacred Reality - which grounded me through all those moves.

Even though I was really only exposed to Christianity and Judaism, I knew from reading and rereading my book on the The World's Great Religions that there were other traditions as well - traditions which affected people's lives, which invited ceremonies and rituals, which called to some people so strongly that they left family and home and everything to seek the Divine.

The only call I ever felt was the call to priesthood. And it was the shock of my young life when I learned that girls could not become priests, or even altarboys.

Now where am I going with this post, you may be wondering... Ok, I think I've laid enough groundwork to do that now (not just in this post, but across posts, within this blog as a whole):

I think I've tried to help you see how much Holy Mystery matters. But also how firmly convinced I am that Holy Mystery is so far beyond our conception, beyond our classifications, beyond our limited grasp of what a participation in Divine Life might mean: That no honest response to God is outside of God's rejoicing. Even an honest atheist! An honest agnostic! That God loves everyone. And will meet you on any path. That God has made every effort, and will continue to make every effort, to reach out - to each and every person. Because God is a seeker, a beggar - a humble supplicant. Yes, we on our end may search as well. But Holy Mystery is the Great Seeker. The Great Giver. The maker of holy souls. Without exclusion!

Now, I well realize that there are many religious folk out there who will vehemently disagree with me. And my response to that is: Take it up with God. Be my guest.

Because a long time ago, in high school (I can see myself exactly where I was when I had this insight), I realized (was it inspiration?) that we humans each have our own unique relationship with Holy Mystery (as I prefer to call it now). That it's as if God is at the center point of a sphere - and each person on the globe is arrayed around this central point. And each and every one, like the famous story of the blind men and the elephant, has a particular vantage point, a particular view of "who God is" - and unless we're standing in their shoes, looking from their perspective, we may not understand what they see or how they see what they profess or experience.

So I had this image. It has never changed. It's importance has only grown and deepened.

I live a paradox. I realize that. I've long ago accepted it. For I profess a Christian faith. (I now feel very at home within the Eastern Orthodox tradition. I am striving to deepen my understanding of this.) Yet at the same time I have so much reverence for other faith traditions, other ways for comprehending the Divine in our midst, Ultimate Reality, all the myriad ways that God tries to reach people, to shake them up, to get us to see and care and mature spiritually. Or ethically. To me, that is PART of this Divine Life, this Holy Mystery, which surrounds us and invades our lives and dwells within us. Holy Mystery - so far beyond our human limitations, our philosophical exclusions, our tightly-wound doctrines, our efforts to define and pin down the Sacred Mystery which can never be pinned down, which never has to follow the rules humans have come up with and imposed on each other.

So yes, I do have my unique vantage point from which I experience the Divine in our midst. Yet at the same time I have this larger image which is also a true perspective for me - from which I see everyone's connection to Holy Mystery. I just love that it's all a mystery!

And what about the Christian's responsibility to preach the Gospel? Well... if you have failed to hear the Good News in this post....

Faced with a Dilemma at 7 or 8... The road not taken

2010-09-30T13:13:00.013-05:00

My best friend in childhood was Jewish. Judy G. She moved in a bit after we did. Her family moved into her cousins' house about a block away from our house. I was glad to see the cousins go. They had tormented a dog so much that it would try to bite you, even though it was tied up behind a fence. I used to walk many blocks out of my way to get to Judy's house, just to avoid that dog with its fierce teeth and scary bark. My brother had been bitten. That was enough to scare me.

At some point the dog went. But Judy and her family stayed.

We lived on a corner. So did she. So did her grandparents, right across the street from us. She had wonderful grandparents. So I ended up with a Jewish Bubbi because of Judy. And her grandparents - who welcomed me into the family, just as her parents did. Only now... across the years and knowing things I never really knew then, do I realize they must have known, what I as a kid never knew. I had a very strange mother (mentally ill, mostly keeping to herself, though she did her best and fed us nutritious meals and put us to bed all too early and made us responsible for household chores... which, if not done to her specifications ... well, let's not go there.)

Judy and her family kept Kosher. They went to Temple.   Right across from my parochial school. Judy was learning Hebrew. Bubbi had a Hebrew primer, from which I tried to learn a bit myself. But 7 or 8 was probably a bit early to try and learn a language on your own. Besides... we had Latin. Masses were totally in Latin. Not that anyone tried to teach us or anything.... That honestly seemed a bit strange to me. Especially when Judy and her sister (a bit later) were given so much instruction in Hebrew. I was kinda jealous about that...

At some point the parents must have made a decision to allow Judy and I to celebrate each other's religious holidays. Though I mostly recall celebrating with Judy and her family. Jews had more holidays as I think about it now. We pretty much only had Christmas or Easter. But those were 2 days only. Her holidays weren't only one day long. They'd last a week at least! It always seemed to me, as a small child, that Jewish children got a lot more from their religion than we did.   Ours required endless sitting in church... being forced to go to confession, to do endless rosaries, stations of the cross - truly it was excruciating boredom! How I managed to survive that and end up with "faith" is beyond me!

So here I was in the parochial school. Walking a mile or more each way. With short legs... While Judy and her sister were bussed to the public school, maybe half as far, only, as we had to walk. Truly the differences between our lives were like night and day. Now that I think on it. From the vantage point of many years ago.

In some ways I think I practically got adopted by her family. Many a time I went with them to visit relatives - all the way to Brooklyn, where they'd moved from, into the cousins house. Or even out to the ritzy, woodsy setting, where the cousins had moved to. So with Bubbi and Bubba (I think that's what we called him) and her family near me and the Brooklyn relatives and the cousins, it seems I was enfolded into this Jewish family. And for all I know it's the reason I am sane today!

So as I say, at some point it must have been decided by the elders to allow me so much time with this Jewish family. Even though the Catholic Church would likely have frowned on that. Had they known. Maybe my father would have frowned on that too. But he was mostly at work. Often arriving home long after we were in bed and leaving sometimes before we went to school. Plus the traveling; he was often away on business for weeks at a time.

So I was blessed with this wonderful introduction to Judaism. As a young child. And what's amazing, I think, is how it happened and how much I was able to experience and benefit, especially given what I am about to relate. For how I squared the two religions is a wonder to me! Even now.

I was in the second grade when this happened. With Sister Rose or Rosalie. I can't recall, since I had two elderly nuns whom I dearly loved as teachers - with similar names. One in the second grade. Another in the 6th. So... one name or the other was teaching me in the second grade.

Picture this. At the time I am speaking of, Catholic children were made to curtsy to the nuns or to bow, depending on whether you were a girl or a boy. Plus, we had to kneel for prayers. During which time the nun could go around, making sure the little girls had uniforms which reached the floor when you were kneeling. Doesn't make much sense for keeping your skirt clean, but the nuns had their reasons - even if we were only 7 or 8 years old then...

Ok, so first thing in the morning, every morning for years if you attended parochial school, after you'd had the morning prayers and pledged to the flag (mind you, we learned the pledge then without the words "under God" - imagine that!)... Ok, so right after those two rituals, we had religious instruction. Always first thing in the day. Mostly it consisted of reciting answers from the catechism. "Why did God make you?" Stuff like that. There were answers we had to memorize. And recite. Perfectly! Well, I knew what it was to have perfection expected. And the dire consequences that could follow in the absence of the expected perfection. So believe you me, I knew my catechism! Perfectly!

Now, mind you, it was never necessary to understand what you were reciting. Oh, no! Just as it was never necessary to understand what you had to say in Latin during the long, boring times when you had to sit in church. Perfectly quiet! Unless reciting Latin that made no sense...

As I've said on other occasions, many things in my childhood left me puzzled.   And I became a pondering child...

So on this particular occasion we were actually learning about something in religion and not just reciting. Like the times we learned Bible stories. Moses. The ark. Stuff like that. Well, this morning we were learning about Baptism. We were told that Baptism, plus all the boring stuff we had to do because we'd been baptized, would ensure us of Eternal Life. Once we were dead. After being judged. Something like Santa and Christmas. Except it would be forever! And seemed to require: Perfection!

Ok, so it was made clear to us that only those who were Baptized Catholic could get to heaven. Everyone else was going to Hell.

Can you see where this is going???

We were also taught how to baptize. And we were going to practice it. The girls were invited to bring their dolls. And it had been explained to us that while Baptism was normally done in Church (in Latin of course!) we could, in an emergency, do it ourselves. After practicing, of course. And guess what? We were actually taught the words for this: In English!

So here I am. A kid whose mother was swift and sure in her punishments. Many a time... even many times when I didn't even understand why I was being punished. (I now have a lot of compassion for what it must have been for my mother to be mentally ill, at home by herself - except for my baby sister, sometimes without a spouse for a weeks at time when my dad traveled.) So, I was 7 or 8. And naturally a kid gets to view God and the "punishment" that was always being warned (if you didn't obey God's expectations perfectly) as being like a "parent" - after all he was called Father.

So... what was to become of Judy? And her family? And Bubbi? And all the relatives?

This must have seemed a huge burden and worry to me. But I suspect I focused just on the beloved Judy. My friend. My same age! Never baptized!

What to do? What to do?

It actually made no sense to me to practice on a doll. When there was Judy!!!

Don't worry! It never got that far!!

I was a pretty verbal child. And I must have been talking to Judy about this. For all I know I'd been talking to her mother or Bubbi. For after all, this was a huge, huge burden that had been laid on my shoulders by the beloved, elderly nun. Who had no way of knowing my best friend in the whole world was Jewish!

In any case all of this must have gotten back to my mother. Probably in a very compassionate way. For my welfare and Judy's welfare. And to prevent all hell from breaking loose. Or whatever it might have caused.... For I simply have no recollection beyond the sense that I had to baptize Judy and the letting go of it. Sort of like that time I got stuck in the mud. Was that a screen memory for this dilemma? I will never know.

Because I never did baptize Judy. (Who later married a Catholic...)

Somehow, in my 7 or 8 year old mind, I must have arrived at a solution to the problem. Maybe I did it by concluding that God, who I knew would forgive if you simply said you were sorry, was OK with it. (I'd been taught that the year before - even though the grown-ups never did seem to understand and punished you anyway...) So I must have concluded that God would understand. And on top of that I must have concluded that all these different religions were OK with God. Someone might have helped me see that. Or maybe it was clear to me by looking at that picture book of all the world's religions, the one where no matter which religion they had photographed, the people all looked earnest and pious and it was obviously TRUE for all of them.

And that has made all the difference....

In the middle of the way....

2010-09-27T16:19:00.005-05:00

I get intrigued by questions. Indeed the genesis of this blog dates back to a question. And so many of my early memories relate to questions I had as a child, things that intrigued me or puzzled me. So I know it's a trait that has been with me pretty much all my life.

Right now there are several questions I'm pursuing. And it's led me to literally start a couple more blogs in order to organize my thinking, my writing - or at least attempt to do that. So, just in case you were wondering... In my mind this blog, Nothingness, is more or less related to my personal experiences and speculations on them. Memories. Stepping stones along a spiritual path. Poetry about that. Attempts to analyze or plumb the depths of what it all might mean or where it points. And while some may read here with interest I really have no need to gather readers, unless it may be helpful to others in some way. Nor, as I make clear on the sidebar, do I claim any special "standing" except as it relates to my own efforts to understand, feeling my way, as it were, in the darkness or sometimes in flashes of insight. So pretty much what I write here (with a few exceptions) relates to experiences of long ago, things I have pondered much, experiences which have shaped me and led me to press on, like a child would trail along behind a parent, pursuing Holy Mystery, that Presence that has been with me, I am sure, all my life, which gives my life meaning yet plunges it into Mystery, into the Holy Nothingness where Mystery arises within.

Questions. Yes, I get intrigued by them. For whatever reason I'm not content with easy answers. And I'm not content unless somehow any "answers" - even if I ultimately arrive at "it's a Mystery" - fit my own experience and dovetail with revealed Truth as written in the scriptures and in the lives and writings of those who have staked everything - way more than I have - on the veneration and single-minded devotion to Holy Mystery. And that includes holy souls of other faiths. For as scripture tells us, with regard to Holy Wisdom:

in every generation she passes into holy souls
and makes them friends of God, and prophets;

So I have dipped into other traditions - always maintaining one cardinal caution, keeping to the main paths or the mystical routes of such paths, routes trodden over the centuries by single-hearted monks and nuns and solitaries, those willing to go beyond words and concepts and images and certainly beyond any fame or fortune. And this has fascinated me since childhood - where I had two favorite picture books, one of every type of musical instrument, the other of the world's religions, in which I pondered over and over photos of religious worshipers or ceremonies, drinking in the sense of the sacred.
So, although titled Nothingness, here I ponder the stepping stones calling me into this unknown territory, leaving pebbles so to speak, in the darkness or the deep wood or the desert or as digging into a deep well or climbing a high mountain or as climbing a ladder toward the heavens in which the rungs have long disappeared into the clouds but still one must keep climbing... And I ponder as well certain well-known stories from scripture whose depths or meaning I can never truly plumb or understand, images such as the burning bush, the scene of Abraham with the 3 angelic visitors, the image of Christ washing the feet of his disciples, the disciples on the road to Emmaus, as well as certain verses from the scriptures and holy souls.

And the two new blogs? Well, both spring from one poem which I've posted here on this blog, a poem which came as a description in one sense of my work as a therapist, but in another sense as a means of expressing how plumbing the depth of relationship in order to promote the growth of another requires one's deepest commitment to one's own inner growth of the most rigorous sort and thus bears on our relationship with Ultimate Mystery. Yet the reason for the blogs sprang from a nagging question ... which seemed to branch off, one path into what does it mean to grow into the priesthood of one's Baptism? And the other, what is the inner prayer of this priesthood, the prayer of the heart? And I had those questions, not just for personal reasons but also because of some things I ran across on the web, which bothered me like a burr under my saddle, which I had to deal with.

And now I've run into another question which intrigues me, partly for the same "burr under the saddle" reason. And I think this new question actually relates to the two I just referenced. For it relates to how do we name God? And what does that Name refer to? How does calling on the Name transform us? Must we name God? What has been the tradition of that naming? And what about the fact of so many languages and even holy traditions, each naming God differently? Or not, as in most traditions of Buddhism. And if not, what is named instead? What is this Mystery which both transcends us and calls within us? Whom we "call upon" in the Prayer of the Heart - whom we perhaps are transfigured "into" in this priesthood. Where Wisdom (however you name it) enters holy souls.

Now I'm not going to start another blog to answer this (most recent) question - which, of course, likely has no answer other than: It's a Mystery. But I'm flagging it. For I will be pondering it. As I pursue these other questions. As I try to write out what seems to have taken over my life. And while I won't be discarding everything and wandering off to live in a cave or the woods, still I can't envision any other future for myself - unless I one day become senile, and that would be the ultimate in giving up everything, wouldn't it? For that indeed would be the death of my Self, one step only, it seems to me, before the giving up of my very Life on this earth.

And yes, in case you're wondering, the title is an allusion to Dante's Divine Comedy.

Like a Prayer...

2010-09-24T15:15:00.001-05:00

There was a time when I felt I could not pray. When I was struggling with the suffering of someone so horribly abused. Well... two of them really. One person was at least able to ponder the questions of evil in regard to the possibility of God's existence; the other had been raised as a strict protestant on the one hand and on the other had been "given" to Satan (as a child) - if such is possible. Suffering, the likes of which I had not known existed, was left for me to grapple with.

In a way I cannot explain, it struck me dumb. I could not pray.

Oh, I'm sure that I knew deep down that prayer went on within me. The sighing of the Spirit Paul speaks of. But I was mute in the face of horror. I could not pray.

Perhaps this could be understood as a psychological phenomenon - something with a fancy term there's no need to drag in here. But we therapists know that at times a willing soul, a willing recipient so to speak, can "receive" and "contain" emotions and experiences which a patient is either out of touch with entirely or has no words for - something never integrated within the psyche, even dissociated from consciousness. So, unconsciously, they transfer this experience, these feelings, to the therapist - there to be felt, to be named, to be integrated and transformed - in order to aid the patient via undergoing a kind of inner purgatory. Where one endures the desolation, chaos, intense longings and hatreds, evicted from the soul of another, who simply could not bear them. Where one is oneself transfigured - to the degree one can bear it. On behalf of another.

Is this the compassion of Jesus? Does this help us to understand the Divine Compassion of the Incarnation? The emptying in order to receive what we ourselves could not bear alone, could not heal on our own, could not accept or understand or undergo? Does this explain the words of Jesus:

28 ‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. ²⁹Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ³⁰For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’

Is the yoke between us com-passion? Where Jesus joins each of us, in shouldering the load, receiving the burdens Himself, integrating and transforming them, breathing his Spirit upon us - the Spirit of Peace, the Spirit of Rest.

There was a time when I could not pray. And there came a later time when I felt that my life itself was a prayer. And even later, I came to see that every single action, no matter how mundane, was a prayer.

Nailed to the Present Moment

2010-09-17T15:23:00.004-05:00

I think that all the times I've been powerfully affected by the Presence of God have been times when I was both deeply at peace and also in emotional torment. It sounds contradictory, but that must be part of it too. Anguish alone is insufficient. But accepting it and relaxing into it seems to be key. Not that you can force anything. For God is always in charge of such events. But waiting on God is not some rarefied intellectual exercise. It wrenches us... down to our roots!

Probably the last time I felt "nailed" was last Fall. Right before I fell headlong into Orthodoxy. One hand nailed to a sense that workers were needed in the vineyard (the vast majority of catholics, bereft of spiritual care, reeling from abuse scandals); the other hand nailed to the remnants of authentic spiritual tradition, borne and transmitted through just a few monastic orders. Indeed, I became convinced the Cistercians, for example, could so easily feel at home in Orthodoxy. Nailed! But just one step away.

And while the reason for this post does involve Cistercians, it's really about something else entirely. Something I have yet to truly plumb in all its depth. Something I'll likely be pursuing for the rest of my life. The reason, actually, for the two new blogs (see sidebar - under musical note). Both blogs spring from one poem. And like the "burning bush" that came to me as a drawing, that poem holds a lot.

The unlikely setting for my revelation was a massage.

The unlikely circumstances? A few weeks after the ill-fated election of 2004. The dishwasher had died. Along with my hopes. We were participating in a consumer boycott. I was not attending church of any type, but had written this fateful piece of fiction. I had just recovered from a bad cold that had prevented me from surreptitiously placing said fiction here and there (to aid the boycott). Never did do that. Instead, wham! (Curiously... we never got around to replacing the dishwasher. Not till last week, just before I felt moved to write this.)

I was lying there, near the end of a long massage, thinking that I needed to recenter my life, myself. When suddenly came the words: I'm supposed to be a priest. Not that I heard a voice. But I knew. I knew something so powerful that there and then I soberly reviewed my options. There was no going back. I had to go forward in this knowledge. I was completely and totally relaxed. Yet entirely focused and alert.

Now I won't go into all the adventures this led me to. All the soul searching. Some beneficial wrong turns. The blessings that came my way. In pursuit of this revelation. This inner demand. Which threw my life into a turmoil. Turning me inside out and upside down. But there was no going back. Nor was there a clear way forward. Indeed, as I have already said, I will likely be pursuing this for the rest of my life.

So what does it mean?

Well, to answer that I must return to a Cistercian monastery. I love this particular place. I may return this Fall. Lovely drive. Especially in Fall. I'll go this time with great peace of mind. To reflect. To relax. Read. Sleep. Meditate. Nice room and meals. Some grounds to walk. An austere chapel. Silence. I'll see what emerges in that silence.

The last time I found a book. It was a book that held the answer. Rarely does such a thing happen. It may never happen again. But I picked up a slim volume. And I read it practically in one sitting. Because even its preface told me that the answer lay within. It used the words: spiritual priesthood. As the secret of the heart. That was it!

Rarely do writers distill their thoughts so succinctly. But this was an elderly Cistercian nun - serving up the fruit of her monastic life. In very simple language. Quoting Orthodox writers on prayer of the heart. Indeed her greatest mentor, it seemed, had been a Cistercian monk. A monk who later converted to Orthodoxy. She spoke of the spiritual life as giving birth to what she termed spiritual being. And she described that new order of being as spiritual priesthood.

That was it! It seemed she had explained me to myself.

I found confirmation in another tiny book. A book on liturgical prayer. Which spoke of "the priesthood common to all believers" and praying the psalms as the prayer of the church: Sharing in Christ's priesthood; praising God; and entering into the sufferings of the world.

That was it! I'm pondering it still....

Journey to the Source

2010-09-09T16:04:00.007-05:00

Now for something else I've hesitated to write. Partly because it's hard to describe. But even more than that, what is my point in doing so?

It was like a waking dream. Yet it was more real in some ways than being awake. Though no waking reality that science could explain.

It happened during a time of great suffering: Bearing the suffering of some of my patients, especially those who had experienced a lot of abuse. (I had written poems about that.) I was having trouble sleeping. And I kept having this agonizing ache in the middle of my back - right between my shoulder blades. Mr. TheraP told me I was "growing my wings."

Trust me, if growing wings is like that, you do not want wings!

I suppose I could now be addicted to tranquilizers or sleeping pills. But that route did not appeal to me.   So I talked with a trusted friend about doing some hypnosis. He's a safe, caring psychologist. He too had dealt with victims of abuse. He used a lot of hypnosis with them - to help them relax. As did I. We met only a few times. Five. Six? This may have been one of the last.

Certain memories and books and poems were running through my mind during this time. One was the story of a Frenchman who had visited India, met with Ghandi, and taken a trip to the source of the Ganges.   Probably Four Quartets.   Memories of the past. Some of them I've written down here. It was like a time of digging down into a well. Seeking my inner depths. Seeking, I suppose, to access some inner source - for my work, for myself.   Though I didn't know it at the time.

So this particular day, my friend and I had set aside a longer time. But he'd forgotten. So we ended up doing two hypnosis sessions, back to back. Now, if you know anything about hypnosis, you know that back-to-back sessions lead to a very deep trance state. On the other hand, maybe you don't "believe" in hypnosis. Which is ok, except you're stuck with this: Things out of the ordinary are a Mystery. This is one.

My friend was using "suggestions" to set the scene. He described a wood and a stream. However my mind had its own journey to take. And pretty soon his suggestions did not match what was already happening for me. I struggled out of this intense state to let him know that. After that I really can't say whether he spoke much or not. I must have tuned it out. Till the last... when I seem to recall, like a voice in the distance: To come back to a normal waking state.

For me this memory remains vivid. Colors very vivid. Intense awareness of nature. Trees. Sky. Sunlight. Stream. Water. Smooth stones on the stream bed. Myself as if floating in the stream. Looking up. Feeling a sense of union with the beauty all around me. As if united with the trees and the stream and the sky and the sunlight.

Just being. Like a still center.

When suddenly I decided to follow the stream to its source. A small stream: Flowing out of a rock. Black rock. Polished. Smooth. Like obsidian. And again, suddenly, I decided to go inside the rock. As if I had to seek this source even more deeply.

And then the stream was flowing through me...

Like flowing through my heart. Clear through me. Clear through where the pain had been. Pouring out. Through the very same space that I described in the first poem of this blog. The place I experienced later as full of stars in a night sky. A starry sky surrounding me - as far as I could see. Going right through me. But that was later.

And both times, I had this thought: Now I can stop breathing. As if I had reached a source, so utter, so beyond our normal conception of life - that breathing, itself, was no longer necessary.

Now, just at that exact moment, I think my friend must have been talking me back to a waking state - to the here and now. For somehow I began to leave that experience. Though it has never left me. Indeed, it has been reinforced by this other,more recent, experience. Though they are one and the same, I think.

I have always viewed this as like a revelation.    To explain it would be impossible. Yet it taught me something about the beyond in our midst. About the power of love - flowing through one's heart. Pouring out. About the value of risking entry into that source.   Thus becoming part of the source. Or the source becoming part of you. It explained to me things written in John's Gospel. It gave me a kind of reassurance in my work. A numinous quality beneath my ordinary life. As in this Icon.

In Memory of PCA

2010-08-20T14:28:00.007-05:00

I’ve just received news that a dear internet friend died on August 2, 2010.

PCA was not a religious person. But I have no doubt that he was a kindred spirit. Even if he didn’t know it – then. And I trust in the Mercy of God. PCA was funny, quirky, and cared passionately about other people, the fate of his nation, and the fate of the world. He would have given you the shirt off his back. But in the end he learned to receive that kind of thing from others, as he faced a dire illness with no health insurance. In addition to tears and tributes from many on the internet, he will be missed by friends and family. Because he was such a private person it apparently took some time and some doing before his family were able to connect with anyone on the internet – to inform them of his passing.

He has receive the amazing tribute of a post put up by the Moderator at TPM Cafe – under his TPM moniker, PseudoCyAnts.

See here, here and here for fractal art by our dear, departed friend. (Alan, in particular, has done spectacular work at the first link, putting up an entire blog and animating Cy's beautiful fractals!)

Farewell, dear PCA. Memory Eternal…

Mystery of The Burning Bush

2010-05-02T21:40:00.017-05:00

I've always loved trees. I've always felt every child needs a woods. Once in college I recall the train pulling away from the station, moving into the countryside, seeing forests of trees, when suddenly: I literally felt I could breathe better - drinking in those trees which seemed to surround me.

Now comes proof.

I think I always felt a sense of identification with trees.

And this brings me to something I have hesitated to write about. An image that came to me nearly 30 years ago. That transformed as I drew it. That holds so much, I am still drawing from it as from a well. "So deeply held inside"- like a line from that poem I've just linked - that I hesitate to share it. My only spontaneous drawing as an adult. And I wish I could show it to you as it emerged. But I'll describe the experience. And then provide a link.

I woke up that morning with an insight into myself. As if, for the first time, I knew myself. As like a flame. Like a spark of the Divine. And I had to put that down somehow. I grabbed crayons left over from my time as a teacher of young children. Put crayon to paper. Allowed the images to flow. First the flame, then a surrounding darkness, with a circle of fire around the darkness - as if flowing out from it. And a blue space, then more flames. And finally a green bush aflame - encasing the inner drawing. And candles in the bush, like you'd see on an old time Christmas tree. And tears flowing - as if the bush were also weeping. Roots of the tree in a river, into which the tears were falling. And when I looked at what I'd drawn, it scared me. Like the awe that we call the Fear of God. And I thought: "Oh, my god, a burning bush - like Moses!"

And a sort of poem came. Or it should have been a poem. I've tried and tried over the years to do this justice in poetic form. Images in words to express my thoughts/feelings at the time:

Deep down.

Myself.

Burns darkness.

Flames Love and Joy.
Into the Burning Bush of myself.

Green and Alive.
With roots sunk deep in the river of life.

Nourishing itself and other selves.
With weeping tears.
Lights candles for the world.

So here's the link to a photocopy of my drawing.

I knew at the time that the experience was precipitated partly by the experience of learning psychotherapy. Learning to give up oneself - on behalf of another. As well as the intensity of trying to reach one particular person, who was so unreachable. (How that process opens one up.) Someone who over and over fogged the "window" through which I tried to reach her - just as we'd nearly cleared a way through. A challenge on so many levels. And it also relates to the pain being tapped into when trying to reach someone, hurting from other relationships and inflicting it on the one who tries to help. And the suffering inside me - awakened by that. Suffering transformed. Into Love.   I came to see all those things. And more, for of course this also goes way back. But here I write only of the immediate experience and its connection with personal growth and spirituality. Indeed, how one's spiritual life is so often catapulted into another dimension, based on experiences of being stretched, turned inside out, challenged in "other" areas of one's life or work.

Recently I came to see all of this in a new and different way.   I was on retreat at a monastery. And someone mentioned the image of Mary as the Burning Bush. That was new to me. So I asked. In Orthodox Christianity, it's been an image of Mary in Prayer: "The God Bearer" - on fire with the Spirit. Like an image of deification or theosis. What Jean Marie Howe terms "spiritual priesthood" - and interestingly some Icons show Mary in the Orans position - with hands up as in (priestly) prayer. One of the most profound things I learned was this: Everything she is called to, we are called to. Yes!

Now, I'm not claiming anything special for this picture. Because I honestly don't know. But it's been a very personal kind of self-portrait for me. Revealing me - to myself. Helping me to ponder and wonder. Perhaps even like a prophecy or a kind of call. (Though I certainly did not think that at the time.) In retrospect it relates to a lot I've written down in this blog.   So I offer it here - as one more experience that's been a gift.

The Burning Bush itself? I love that story! I love the "take off your shoes for this is holy ground" part. I love the "I have heard my people's cry" part. I love the revelation of "the name" - the ones Jews NEVER say, saying instead "Hashem" - The Name.

Long ago I read something by Kallistos Ware. Well, I read it so long ago that he was then publishing under Timothy Ware. And it went something like: Until we experience truths (of the faith) as our truths - we have not yet grasped them. I think that's true.

First Do No Harm

2010-04-22T14:54:00.046-05:00

This is a poetic, moving, simple story: A parable.

A counterpoint to so much bad news: Good News.

A tenacious documentary film maker. An unusual subject: A former Cistercian monk, who has spent 50 years building a Cathedral - of his own design, by his own hands. The story is told in simple, moving shots of the old man, walking through his creation. What a poignant testimony to the human heart and soul!

Watch this first:
                                    Click on Video for larger version.

     The power of love and devotion. Life's work of one man.

Memory Eternal

2010-04-17T10:12:00.034-05:00

"So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day." [St. Paul, 2 Corinthians 4:16]

My mother loved picnics. Especially all day picnics. Her picnic basket was organized, her picnics planned and executed without a hitch - we kids only aware of days of total freedom at the beach or a state park. Picnics involved rising at the crack of dawn, Sunday Mass if it was Sunday, driving to the beach or park, perhaps stopping for fresh-made donuts, selecting our picnic spot long before some got out of bed.

Picnic days were rare times when dad cooked breakfast. Outdoors. While mom laid out the treats she had prepared. Breakfast treats. Lunch treats. All-day-long - as much as you could eat - treats. For us kids these were days of near-total indulgence.

She loved those picnics! She must have prepared for them meticulously - for days.

The summer she got her driver's license - I think I was 9 - she took us swimming nearly every day. She loved the water. She loved swimming, sunshine, beaches, lakes, canoeing. I bet the all-day picnics reminded her of camping trips to northern Michigan in her childhood.

Those were happy times. And she had her sad times too. But so much of what was difficult in her life has now been altered by the transformation of how she met her death.

People die in different ways. We choose our dying. If dying marks a life, hers was remarkable!

When it came her time to die, it seemed she met that willingly, indeed at times impatiently. She knew it long before it came. And tried to tell us, was frustrated we seemed not to understand, frustrated too at her growing inability to formulate sentences, find words for what she longed to say. Till the last. When finally we knew. When we could let her know it was ok to go. When she could manage words like: "dying... good." She wanted to go home and the word "home" confused her in the end. I think she tried to tell us she was sorry about that - sorry she was going home and that meant separation.

In the end her dessicated body was nearly weightless, her rib-cage visible. Like a birdcage with her soul inside - waiting to fly free, on those peaceful last days when her eyes no longer opened and words no longer came, her spirit kept growing and I felt we were communing - soul to soul.

I was moved by that. The transformation that was happening. She, in another space. The world, set aside. We, in this in-between space. Waiting. As she transformed: A woman never overtly religious - who had avoided church in later years - whose soul began to shine as she was dying. Welcoming communion, saintly, even angelic, when I brought it - those last times before she died.

I was not there in her last moments - when the cage opened and her spirit soared - as I was driving to see her that last time.

She looked beautiful in death.

In dying, she had given me her soul. Yet death held more: In death, I felt her spirit with me. Drawing me into that resurrection space she'd entered: An eternal picnic, communing with the saints.

[Words prepared for her funeral on what would have been her 88th birthday: 4.21.2010]

Brother Pierre ~ Genuine Shepherd

2010-04-01T07:59:00.010-05:00

On this Holy Thursday, when Christians everywhere recall the teachings of Jesus related to servant leadership, on a day when the RCC remains mired in scandal and crisis, I offer this timeless lesson:

Bishops ~ Take a Lesson from Brother Pierre:

Brother Pierre is a true shepherd, someone I have known for 35 years, though we've rarely spoken. I've always respected his contemplative silence, yet I feel I know him well enough to commend him to you as an example of how to be a good shepherd:

Brother Pierre is not ordained. He's never given a sermon. Unless you count the way he's lived his life. So far as I know he has no shepherd's staff, no visible authority. But you can learn all you need to know from the photo above and one more below.

Look long and carefully at this photo. Look at it like Sister Wendy looks at art: Set aside your ego and allow the photo to speak with its own integrity to your innermost heart.

Notice how he interacts with the sheep. You can see he loves them. He doesn't lord it over them. He reaches out to gently hold the lamb. He looks the sheep right in the eye - because he's kneeling down. Among them. You can see the adult sheep trusts him with her lamb. You can see he's prepared to "feed her lamb". The sheep listens attentively - for she trusts him. And he speaks her language. Like St. Francis. His tone of voice and his Presence carry the message.

Like David, another shepherd before him, he also plays the harp and sings psalms.

I wish you could hear him play: "Like the deer that yearns for running streams / So my heart yearns for you, my God."

Mount Savior Monastery saved my soul. But right now you Bishops are breaking my heart:

You, who seem ever ready to excuse and hide the crimes of "your own" and all too eager to caste stones at the flock. Instead of showing love and a place at the table, you have forfeited your moral authority.

You're trying to regain that. But you're going about it in exactly the wrong way. You're trying to impose your will on people - people who have every right to question that will - tarnished as it is by your flagrant hypocrisy over decades, even centuries, of covering up for predatory shepherds.

Let me give you a piece of advice as a former teacher of young children and therapist who has worked with many victims of abuse: You can only exercise authority if you first establish relationships of love. Unless your flock sees the true face of love (what Paul called, "the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ") you have lost them. And once even children experience "discipline" lacking in love, they become traumatized, gun-shy, mistrustful - and you have lost them.

You have lost your trustful flock just as surely as you have lost your moral authority. And don't be fooled by the sycophants!

There is really only one way to regain trust and moral authority - IF that is still possible. And that is the way of changing your own hearts and minds. Changing your tune. Changing your behavior, your tone of voice, your habit of looking down on people. Learning instead, from Brother Pierre, to kneel and look them in the eye. One by one. With compassion. Seeking forgiveness. Learning to serve and not be served.

Go out among the poor. Go out barefoot and in rags. Or make it sandals and one set of plain clothes. Make it your task to listen. To love each person you meet. Recognize your common humanity with each, especially with each suffering soul. Hear the suffering hidden in each heart. See the yearning. Don't preach. Let your veneration for their suffering be your healing balm. Your listening heart. Look with eyes of compassion - devoid of judgment. Forgive everyone you come across. Without asking any questions.

And when you can do this - then and only then - might there be a hope of regaining the lost trust, the lost respect of those whom you have betrayed. Failing that, all you have to offer will sound as empty platitudes, no more than a musical instrument completely out of tune. Harsh. Discordant. Annoying.

....................................

[Repost on Holy Thursday: from an original blog of mine at TPM Cafe]

Requiem

2010-03-23T23:05:00.005-05:00

She wasn't perfect. And in many ways she had a hard life. She grew up during the depression. As a child she knew poverty. She knew abuse then too. She knew loneliness. And she never meant anyone any harm, though in her insecurity she needed obedient, respectful, dutiful children. She always tried to care about others. And she taught us never to exclude anyone: to share; to be kind and considerate; not to think we were better than others. Bigotry was not part of her nature and she instilled that in us as well. She did her best. Trying to hide her own problems and put on a good front - as best she could - all the while her husband was often away on business trips. We didn't see enough of our dad, but she tried to make up for that as best she could.

On their 66th anniversary (last month) she didn't comprehend the word "anniversary" or the reason for the tiny cake my father brought to the rehab unit. She told him to take it with him when he left. But he ate it. Bit by bit. Over 5 days. Two pieces the first day (one for him, one for her). And one on each on the following 4 days. At nearly 93, he thought it was the best cheesecake he'd ever eaten.

She went downhill quickly. Falling and gashing her head at the end of January. A week in the hospital. A few weeks in a rehab center, where they tried to cure a bedsore from vegetating in front of the TV - as her mind had slowly lost its bearings. It was Alzheimer's, but my dad simply could not bring himself to see what his children saw so clearly. Not till after she fell, when it suddenly dawned on him: "We've lost her."

The rehab center was way too chaotic for a person descending into the last stages of Alzheimer's. They were not set up to deal with such persons. Only with persons on the way to getting well. When she was on the way to death and dying.

If only we'd known....

Not till the rehab center, finding her more than they could handle, transferred her to the best psych unit in town, did we get the diagnosis of Alzheimer's. And one week later, the news that she was dying of it. There they calmed her down - in a quiet room - with quiet, carpeted hallways. Told us she needed nursing care. Next thing we knew, it was hospice care she needed.

I cannot begin to tell you of the kindness and consideration and compassion we received in this last place - the home that nursed her into death. She, as a resident, only for 6 days. We as family. They treated her like you'd treat a saint - if you knew a saint was dying. I'm not kidding! And they asked how we were doing too. Brought us snacks and beverages. Gave me sheets to spend the last two nights on a mattress on the floor next to her bed. I got to see the good care, night and day, that she received.

She was incoherent these last of her days. Hardly spoke at the end, except to moan now and then - words we could not comprehend. But she did clearly say things like "dying... good" and "I love" and "I love you" and "I'm sorry" and "bye-bye" and it seemed that the last night she called my name and seemed to try and moan when she heard my voice.

I never thought it would hit me so hard. Hearing that she was dying, as I drove home from a few days of retreat, a respite while my brother was in town. I never thought I would see her turn into a saint, as her body slowly wasted and desiccated, as her mind lost its bearings, while her spirit grew and grew. Till in the end I felt I was communicating soul to soul.

RIP. Born: 4/21/22. Died: 3/23/10

Addendum - via my brother, by Lord Byron:

My task is done -- my song hath ceased -- my theme
Has died into an echo; it is fit
The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp -- and what is writ, is writ --
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been -- and my visions flit
Less palpably before me -- and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.

Compassion Works!

2010-02-25T10:10:00.001-06:00

A lot of people have expended huge time and energy trying to convince us that torture works. That’s the wrong playing field in my view. I mean, where do you go from there? Murder works? Greed works? Rape works? Pillaging works? I mean, where do you stop?

Let’s take this playing field instead: Compassion works. Now here is a place that offers lots of room to move around and go somewhere. First of all, who’s gonna argue with it? Well, maybe some will, but then we can make use of compassion and say. Gee, you don’t want any? What’s with that? Tell us more. (Maybe they don’t feel they deserve it, for example. Or maybe they’re afraid of trusting.

Compassion is something you can give away. It’s not against the law. It’s not immoral or illegal. It can be done without words, whether you know someone’s language or not. No interpreter needed. No interrogators to be trained. Just think – a tactic that works across cultures – and builds alliances. Why, we could send compassion ambassadors around the world, instead of torture advisers. Think of the difference!

Seems to me that every major spiritual tradition is based on the idea that compassion works. And people seem to universally celebrate those who exercise compassion, particularly under the most trying circumstances, such as inside concentration camps or war zones or in the midst of horrible ethnic violence. It’s the voices of compassion, the courageous acts of compassion, in the face of great dangers especially, that we seem to remember and celebrate. Often these people are quiet individuals, who have risen to extraordinary acts of compassion and generosity and courage, simply because they believed it was right and necessary to act – in spite of threats and dangers.

Ash Wednesday

2010-02-14T19:54:00.000-06:00

A tribute first published here.

Remembering: Lux Umbra Dei

Ash Wednesday
In the Dharma hall
Few words
Tell it all

Are you
Ashes now?
Bless your ashes
Anoint my brow

Am I
Your Dharma heir?
Sprinkle your ashes
Upon my hair

Ash Wednesday
In the Dharma hall
"No Question"
That is all

We may never know.

A Lesson for us All

2010-01-14T08:12:00.004-06:00

“Beni Swa Leternel,” they sang. “Blessed be the Lord.”

Thus did the Haitian survivors cope during the night. After the earthquake and devastation of all normal life. Singing hymns.

Such is the human need to connect. With each other. With L'Eternel, the Eternal Mystery. They sought the Virgin Heart - the Surpassing Comfort that transcends and inhabits the deepest grief, the greatest shock and horror, Holy Presence in the midst of near-total collapse. The solidarity of singing. Of strangers holding hands. On a starry night. In a city made rubble. Blessed be the Lord, they sang: Beni Swa L'Eternel.

What a parable to learn from!

Be Transformed ~ by the renewal of your mind

2009-12-28T16:56:00.011-06:00

This post is a meditation on the "heart of the matter" of this blog: Tying together different themes, avenues toward the same deep place of the spirit. One which I termed "nothingness" ~ which others refer to as the "deep heart" or point vierge (Virgin Heart). A hidden place, from which flows such inner power, that even to read about it or to meet someone who speaks or acts from this place can be perilous, in the sense that one's life may be so touched by that person, event, or experience that one is never the same. As in, "Take off your shoes, for this is holy ground." Or, as this writer suggests:

"In studying the writings of any of the mystics ... we take the risk of being transformed by them." [Dorothy C. Buck]

But I would go further: Whether studying sacred scriptures / poetry, being in the presence of a mystic, opening oneself to sacred art, rites or mysteries, even placing oneself into the mindset of such a seeker (after Holy Mystery), we risk being transformed. Transformed because - as the same writer describes and then quotes:

The mystery of The Virgin Heart is a call to recognize the Transcendent in our midst and overcome our illusions of power and control. [DC Buck ~ linked above]

Like a beggar: "God makes Himself explicit through everything which is perceived and considered; everything that one sees face to face signifies Him. And this is why I have said: I have seen nothing in which I have not seen God." (Massignon 1983, Vol.lll p.68)

A similar quote could be taken from Eckhart, the man "from whom God hid nothing."

Thus I begin to have a glimpse: That what I have been groping after and pondering, in my life, here in this blog, revolves around this point vierge - "that God can relate only to the virginal found in the heart of the human soul." What Hesychasm refers to as the deep heart. A place of transformation. A place of meeting. Meeting Holy Mystery. And this revelation seems to spring forth in different traditions. For example a Sufi (Muslim) mystic - martyred for loving God - named al-Hallaj - posited:

God's secret holy place at the core of each of us "whether we are rich or poor, educated or illiterate, worthy or not" which "remains forever whole and intact regardless of our fear and pain, self-defeating habits or ungracious thoughts and desires."

Which rings to me like the experience I wrote about in the first post of this blog, from whence comes its name, the same word Merton used: Nothingness. A concept he gleaned from Massignon's point vierge and (likely) the Hesychasts' focus on the heart. Massignon refers to this "place" (akin to my "window onto eternity") in relation to the Annunciation - much to my amazement (!) - given my title for that first post, a line from the Magnificat: "He looked on his servant in her nothingness..." And the Virgin's welcoming Yes (her response to the Annunciation), is depicted by Massignon as akin to Abraham's hospitality to the three strangers:

Imaging God as the stranger who comes to our door begging for food and shelter, or the refugee who struggles to speak our language, or the poor and marginalized in our society Massignon envisions Mary, who was also an outcast in her society. She represents the sacred hospitality in the center of every human soul that welcomes the stranger, God. ... The ultimate manifestation of Massignon's sacred hospitality is the divine Guest seeking hospitality in the center of every human soul.

And for me that also plays out in the social/political spheres, something I had earlier termed Dignity, Hospitality, Community. And thus, the inner and the outer become ONE transformative experience.

And here I must bow to TS Eliot, ending Four Quartets:

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

As Merton wrote: "The Gate of Heaven is everywhere!"

First Frost

2009-11-30T13:35:00.009-06:00

The grass - so green
       after the early autumn rains
Each tip now glistening - silvery white
       in the early dawn.

A bunny stops to study a plant
Carefully choosing just one slender
   stalk of grass
   among the tangle of dry leaves.

Sun slowly warms tall tree branches,
   their leaves - now yellow - catching
       sunlight - into gold.

Every thing is still
       this quiet Sunday morning
As the first frost slowly
       lets go its grip - where sunlight falls.

Seasons contending on the Sunday morning lawn:
       Patches of shadow
               harboring hints of winter
               in frost-tinged waves - of grass
       While sunlight's gleams glisten
               tiny dewdrops,
               mirrors
               of still green summer.

I too sit between seasons this Sunday,
       white hair hinting of wintry times ahead,
A promise of wisdom gaining precious ground
        amidst earlier seasons, contending for my soul.

November 1, 2009

A State of Mind

2009-11-10T19:23:00.018-06:00

We were cleaning our cars. Of piles and piles of snow. We were getting ready to leave. He, after a week. And I after a weekend. He'd already told me how all of his female cousins had been abused by one male uncle... We were cleaning our cars of piles of snow... (This was many years ago.)

He was a priest. He'd been there on retreat. And, in his sadness to leave the monastery - he told me he felt sorry I'd only had just the weekend. But I wasn't sad. I'd used to live near there. I had received all I needed in a brief visit. How could he know that? For nearly 10 years I could come almost any time I wanted. Every Sunday morning. For Vespers on a Sunday evening. And sometimes, when the mood hit, we'd simply driven there (half an hour) just for Compline. Many times I'd come up alone and spend long hours there. That was when I needed something external. They'd asked us to take charge on the hayrides at the yearly Festival. When we lived there.

That was when they were still a dairy farm. Before they sold the cows and became sheep farmers.

I tried to help him see: I hadn't lost anything by coming for a weekend. So I told him, and it struck me at that moment: Mt. Savior is a State of Mind.

How could he understand? When I'd first gone there, the serenity and recollection of the monks was something I lacked. Something they had. ... But gradually, over time, it had seeped into me. I hadn't realized it: Not till that moment.

Mount Savior had become for me a State of Mind.

...................................................

It was snowing so much - by the time I arrived - that it surpassed my recollection of my favorite memory of the place.

Driving up the hill, every tree, every branch was white with moist snow. And it continued to snow, even as I reached the parking lot and struggled inside. Where I was met with amazement! They had never expected I would make it. Indeed the plow had only just been through, the closed road opened. Even the power was out. And they had gathered in the entrance, full of windows - where they could see, with the power off. Never expecting the traveler - me - to stagger in from the blizzard. Driving.

Thank goodness I'd flown into Syracuse! (The Abbot, himself, was stuck in New York City.) I wanted to have the long, familiar road to myself. It was like a pilgrimage. I needed time - to go back in time - to relish the road, its curves, the hills. To see Ithaca, the Lake - startling in its beauty as I reached the long, steep drop in altitude. The road almost terrifying - in its nearly straight drop - to the valley below. Then... up the steep hill on the other side - and winding my way - so familiar - so much of my past - toward Elmira and then on to Pine City - to the turn-off I'd just taken - actually arriving in the snowstorm - to the amazement of monks and guests alike.

The snow had increased at every step of my journey in the rented car. I couldn't even turn back: Home was no longer there to go to. All I could do was press on - slowly - carefully - grateful it was still daylight and the road so well known - indeed more familiar the closer I got - and the deeper the snow.

It was magical!

Like Orhan Pamuk's Snow - it was like that! Except not like that.

My favorite memory of this place. Recreated for me - surpassed even. What a gift!

It was a snow of the kind for which poetry was invented.

Pure. Wet. Heavy snow. Falling softly. Every path magical in its transformation. Every branch. Every step. Every instant. Magical with snow! The quietness of snow. The sense of intimacy of snow falling. Of going to sleep with it. Of waking up to it. Paths of snow. Branches of snow. Magical. Mystical. Pure. White. Wet. Snow.

I'd come there to talk to the monks. To ask them to pray. To pray for victims of abuse. And for their therapists.

But the Abbot was stuck in New York. The monks knew nothing of my correspondence with him.

But everywhere I turned was confirmation of my task. The old friend, a supervisor actually: He recognized me at the Chapel. He revealed he'd been abused by a priest. The family we'd donated our car to: The people who had taken in so many abused, neglected, and disabled children. (I'd forgotten we gave away a used car... But they hadn't.)

It was snowing. And I ran into so many old friends.

Amazingly, the Abbot made it back from New York City. Just in time. In time for me to talk to the monks. To tell them of the plight of abused persons. Of how they felt abandoned by God and human kind. To ask for their prayers.

I was touched at Mass that even the sermon seemed to reflect my plea.

It was timely. The Church in the dock! So many persons betrayed! Like my former supervisor. At Mass the day before. Who could have known?

It seemed everyone had been touched by abuse. The Abbot's godchild. The priest's female relatives. My friend, the former supervisor from my teaching days.

Is there no end to it! No end to those abused by someone?

So there we were. Cleaning our cars of snow. And he, wishing I'd had more time there. Really - wishing he'd had more time.

The Church. It's pastors so over-burdened....

I tried to tell him, to give it to him: Mount Savior ~ as a State of Mind.

Moral Hazards

2009-11-08T10:52:00.016-06:00

She was a professional woman. Raised in a strict, churchgoing and dysfunctional family. And she was gay. That's what brought her to my doorstep. Seeking a way out of her dilemma. Seeking, but not finding, something I could not give her. Because she was also trapped in her own mind - her beliefs and her self-evaluations and her view of God so powerfully stuck, so resistant to change.

Her church was telling her that what her mind and body felt were sinful longings. As to behavior, she really hadn't done much of that. Too much rejection from family the one time she briefly lived with a woman. Church was important to her. Her main source of social interaction outside her family of origin. But God was, for her, a demanding judge, someone to fear. And the bible hadn't seemed to help either - as she tended to focus on those passages which, she feared, would be in waiting for her when her behavior came to "Judgment" one day.

She really didn't make much progress, I think. As her mind was so fixed - like concrete that had set long ago. And she finally stopped coming. Still depressed, but no longer suicidal.

But though she left therapy, her therapy did not leave me. Her plight was not just one of being rejected for being gay. Though she had been. More than anything it was related to a failure of religion to be there for her. A failure of her faith community to provide solace or even a chance to open up. A failure of her church to reassure her of God's care and protection and love; God's ultimate delight in her and fervent wish for her well-being. But it wasn't only that. Our image of God is powerfully affected by the image we form, based upon our parents. Our conscience is formed from interaction with parents. And she just couldn't take the risk of "giving up" her long-ago cemented ideas about God, sin, faith, religion, and the parental rejection they all symbolized.

Somehow she could never chip away at that cement: For the Bible told her so. And she was so closed-off, from having to hide so much of herself, feeling so ashamed - that it prevented her from forming a close enough bond with me. A bond that might have given her enough "security" and "safety" to risk letting go of what kept her imprisoned, unhappy, unfulfilled, isolated.

She needed to protect herself. But in doing that she was also (unwittingly) hemming herself in. She was too fearful of parental disapproval, church disapproval, bible disapproval, God disapproval. So what did it matter if I was OK with it? She herself disapproved.

One thing about being a therapist. So many people get better, move on. There's a sense of completion. But you never forget the people you couldn't help. That thought nags at you. Especially when, like this person, part of the problem lies in society and in religion. You get concerned about the many ways churches hurt people, rather than helping them. You cringe at so many ways that society hurts and fails to help. Of course you knew that before, but that was before you knew this person. (And naturally, it's not just one person I'm thinking of. I just picked the one that's nagged at me the most.)

That's why civil unions alone will never be enough. People like my former patient need compassionate pastoral and communal care as well. God is Love. Love is of God. So long as we are faithful to the one we love, how could that love possibly displease the One who first LOVED us? Who literally loved us - into BEING?

Long ago I decided that if I had to choose between moral hazards, I would prefer to err on the side of love. (Seems to me I picked that up from an itinerant Jewish Rabbi "who spoke with authority" and whose actions, according to his own testimony, were meant to reveal his Father's Love - love especially for the lost and forsaken, the excluded and the outcast.)

The Great Divide

2009-11-06T08:59:00.013-06:00

I think I understand
what is happening
in our land.

It's the solution
that evades me.

There is a huge fissure in the social fabric. Indeed there is, on the part of some, an inability to even see the social fabric.

To those who cry for personal freedom and decry efforts, of whatever type, to care for our brothers and sisters (the least among us, the excluded, the poor, the sick, the illegal immigrant, those who cover their heads or use a different name for god, those who ask simply to marry the one they love), selfishness is a god, not freedom. But they don't seem to see that.

What pains me most, what makes it nearly impossible to write at all lately, is this deeply ingrained selfishness and greed, which asserts that individuals are somehow "free" when they most disregard their fellow human beings. Oh, I'm sure they wouldn't see it that way. They think of themselves as fine, upstanding patriots - who are only interested in urging others to "stand up" and "fend for themselves". Yes, they would say this to the sick and the lame and the poor and the downtrodden. They would tell them, without performing any miracle, to "take up your bed and walk" - something that Jesus is described as saying. But when Jesus said it, there was a gift of healing.

I am at a loss
for how
to get across
to folks
who are the haves and have mores
that we are put
upon this earth
to share
and care.

This is my dilemma. This is a source of great suffering to me.

How do we first get people to open their hearts? This is breaking my own heart!

To dwell with the suffering,
in the suffering,
that is sometimes all we can do.

Hoping,
that somehow,
if enough of us are willing to dwell there,
it will become some kind of black hole -
which pulls others
into it.

Peace upon all.

Merton on Nothingness

2009-10-26T09:03:00.012-05:00

"At the center of our being is a point of nothingness, which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point, a spark, which belongs entirely to God.

It's like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody!

I have no program to seize this. It is only given. But the Gate of Heaven is everywhere!"

Thomas Merton

Now give yourself the treat of testing Merton's words. Go here. Watch. Listen. You may find yourself drawn to that very point of nothingness. I did.

Another exquisite example.

Addendum (12/26/09) - A more complete quote of Merton's on Nothingness:

"At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our mind or the brutalities of our will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God in us. It is, so to speak, His name written in us. As our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our son-ship, it is like a pure diamond blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody. And if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely. I have no program for this seeing; is it only given. But the Gate of Heaven is everywhere."

[Quoted by Kallistos Ware from Merton's Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander]

And I just came across this comment (of my own) to Lux Umbra Dei:

I've also read widely in many traditions. They're all pointing at the same vanishing point. This is all that really matters to me. But the "vanishing point" is also within all of us... and like the heart of reality.

What amazes me (literally blows me away!) is their similarity to the first post of this blog.

My "Song of Songs"

2009-08-10T13:04:00.011-05:00

Like a truth ~ I did not really understand.

Till now...

This poem, dating back to my college years, still speaks to me.

I found a rock upon the beach
A weather-beaten, battered rock
Who loved to stand and bear the waves
And greet the rushing waters - day by day.

I bound myself to that rock I found -
I could not tear myself away.
Two fearless lovers we became
And met the rushing waters in our way.

But rocky coast turns into sand
When time and waters have their way.
And two who stood to face the waves
Turned into sand and blew away.

"The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God... In the eyes of the unwise, they did appear to die, but they are at peace." [Wisdom 3:1-2,3]

Mystery lifts its veil ...

2009-08-08T12:52:00.015-05:00

There are times when Holy Mystery manifests itself to us. Dying is one of those times. And interestingly, the metaphor of death or dying often describes the entry of Holy Presence - into our midst - beyond the veil of normal seeing. As if one had happened upon a boundary between the world of sense and the world of spirit:

Photo ~ Courtesy of brotherjohn OED

This story was told to me by a witness, whose veracity I can vouch for. She sat behind me in a seminar a few years ago, and related the events within days of their occurrence. Some months later, via email, she assured me that my recollection of her story was accurate. It is a very simple story. Yet profound.

My source, a social worker employed by a home hospice, coordinates chaplaincy visits for individuals receiving hospice care at home. The hospice serves anyone within a county-wide area, who is dying at home. Thus, nothing out of the ordinary was to be expected, when she went to the home of a dying patient, along with her supervisor - a man unknown to the patient.

As soon as she introduced her supervisor, the patient immediately said to him: I didn't know that you knew ____." And her supervisor's response was: How do you know that I knew ____? (Knew.... because ____ was dead.)

And the patient answered: Well, he's sitting right there! (pointing to thin air) And he just told me.

Now that is the story.

Make of it what you will.....

But the story is true: My source is entirely credible.

Something there is - which is way beyond our ken. Something which the dying often give witness to. Which spiritual traditions and sacred writings give witness to. Something which manifests itself within holy individuals; and I have met some. Something which can break through normal events - so they shine with mysterious translucence - as if a veil were momentarily lifted, as if one could see from one world into another Reality... one which transcends our world entirely or marks it as mysteriously shot through with holiness.

Places in the Heart

2009-07-27T16:24:00.007-05:00

"There are places in the heart that do not yet exist;
suffering has to enter in for them to come to be".

[Leon Bloy]

God in heaven

Watching you and me

God in heaven

Is sad as he can be.

The hurt we feel

Does pierce His heart

But the hurt we feel

Is just a part

Of the hurt inside His heart.

God feels our pain

And others' too

It may be feeling hurt

Is all He gets to do.

The world he made

Has gone astray

So sad he feels

To see what people do and say.

So sad is He

That He's depressed

That He's worn out

And sad as death.

Perhaps our God

Is like us too

That when He's sad

And feeling blue,

He cannot even tie his shoe.

Perhaps He lies

In bed all day

And can't make hay

Or even play.

Perhaps these hurts

He feels

Are such,

He can't do much.

He can't get up,

Get dressed, get food

And all He does

Is lie in bed - and brood.

The worries that A God can have

So heavy, heavy do they weigh

That He's depressed,

That He's inert

For all the long of a Godly day.

He may need help

But cannot call

Who's thought that

God needs help at all?

It makes me very sad to think

That God's so hurt and lonely

(And no one thinks of this at all)

That nothing does He get to do,

But suffer only.

To suffer for eternity

In hopes the world will change

And all He gets for this

Is hopes and prayers and

Curses for the things he doesn't arrange.

I don't think I would like to be

A God like this - who cries all day
And sees all pain

And suffers still

And still again

And suffers every, every day

And feels our pain in every way.

It's bad enough

For me to know

That suffering

That has brought you low.

If I had had to know - What He has seen and felt

I don't think I could bear to know

And feel - and still go on.

I'd get depressed and cry all day

And feel so sad - in a Holy way

And I'd give up and say:

"I'm tired of being God this way!"

I'm tired of knowing all the woes

And all the hurts and all the pain;

I'm sick to death of suffering.

Please can't I die?

And not go through all this again?

But God can't die

He only lives

For all eternity

Alone and sad, a whole world's pain

He bears for you and me.

I could go on - in the middle of the night

Telling you all about God's plight.

Like I, He cannot sleep

So sad is He, so sad, so deep.

Imagine being god

Where day and night

Without surcease

He watches all our sufferings

And takes them in His heart

And can do nothing more - That is his part.

So when you're sad - and He can't help

At least you're in - His suffering heart.

1-31-94

Written for one who suffered much.
Dedicated to all who suffer without comprehension.

I have learned a little - in my work - of Divine Compassion:
Love for - and with - those who suffer.
This suffering love, in which I have participated,
This compassion, which has enlarged my heart,
I cannot call it "mine" alone.
It teaches me - from whence it comes.

Mining the ground you're standing on ...

2009-07-25T10:42:00.003-05:00

Snippets of Poetry - Moments of Insight

I.

In the depths of the Self
A River of Prayer

You're not aware
But it's there

II.

These individual moments, which I thought to be like separate beads upon a string... strands of my life: Now appearing ... as I look back ... part of a single braid... now disclosing its secret beauty.

Or perhaps like a mine that's gradually being dug in one place. As if my life were like a piece of ground I'm standing on, ground I've been given. And as I dig down, gradually, over the years, mining my life: Sometimes for its insights and blessings. More often just the daily shoveling of dirt. But from time to time, I find ... there in the darkness ... beautiful jewels - like sparks of darkness... leading me on.

Especially has suffering - on behalf of others particularly, but also my own - hollowed me out, deepened me - opened me up, through yearning and stretching at times of utter extremity: Seeking to feel my way into the hidden heart and soul of another. To place myself in a receptive state. Or to bear the unbearable, along with others. Or weather the storms of emotion in the mystery of relationship.

Even when I was looking in all the wrong places for the wrong things... that emptiness or nothingness or receptivity or openness - seems to have been answered or echoed or set up an inner resonance, to which I responded, or which simply rose up like a fountain. As if it's been going on there all the time - and I never knew. Like a stream running through me - of which I am also a part.

I think we need to value where we're stuck. Rather than try to get away from it. To mine it. To take what we've been dealt - and dwell with it. That stuckness may be a place of potential transcendence.

Not that I'm very good at any of this .....

III.

Newly arisen -
An emptiness
Appears and reappears

A solitude
A space
A sense of freedom

In the hurly-burly
Of my day

My soul?
A sign
Of the Divine?
A foretaste?

IV. This lovely photo of stratofrog's seems to belong here. Click on it and enlarge it. Ponder it. There is so much in this photo. So much beauty. So much mystery. So much sheltering darkness. The transcendent beauty of the clouds above. Opening in places. The mysterious translucent peach colors in the distance... like a channel between heaven and earth, clouds and mountains. It says so much to me! Thank you, stratofrog!

I am beautiful
in my soul.

There --
        Even the dark places
              are beautiful
        In silence and in mystery

Be Still and Know....

2009-07-21T13:18:00.012-05:00

So many incidents through my life. As I look back ...

I think they have often come when I was feeling at my uttermost limits - when I'd done all I could on my own and I was reaching out - beyond myself.

About 35 years ago, when I was teaching young children, third graders, I had a particularly challenging class of children. I was at my wit's end. I would go to bed at night, thinking of a child or an issue - and usually by morning something would come. Some new idea. Some energy to try again. Some way to empathize with a child or find a way to reach them - personally or educationally. But I was getting weary... and nothing was coming...

As I say, I was at my wit's end ~ at a point of nothingness.

It was during the time when TM was all the rage. I'd heard about the method. Relax. Say a mantra. But TM cost money. And we were poor. My husband was in grad school. If we had had another child at that time, the children, if they'd been in school, would have qualified for free lunches. And as I recall I also was taking grad courses, one per semester, in order to get my permanent teaching certificate (to keep the job). So paying for TM was out. (Oh, TM? ... Transcendental Meditation)

But I figured, what the heck, give it a try....

I recall sitting down - must have been one afternoon. I picked a word. Who knows what word? Did I say "Ommmmm"? I have no idea. However, I can pretty much assure you it was not a Christian word - because shortly after college I had given up on going to church and stopped paying attention to "any of that". So I assure you, I wasn't deserving of what followed.

So there I was with my "word" - whatever it was. But here's what happened.

As I sat there, quietly, paying attention to my breathing and saying this word..... Suddenly, from deep inside myself, I'm not kidding you.... Prayer welled up! Yes. Without my bidding. Without any willing of this.

Prayer... inside myself .... as if a well had been drilled and water just gushed up.

Shocked the hell out of me! No kidding....

Honestly, as I look back, over these many years, I think it was like the bell was rung. Without any effort on my part. Certainly without any deserving on my part.

After this, certain amazing coincidences followed. I went to the public library, maybe to return some books. And there, on the bookshelf right near the circulation desk was Thomas Merton's Seven Storey Mountain - the story of his early life and conversion, his entering a monastery. It was Lent. I just happened to pass a church - going who knows where. There was an afternoon Mass and I went in. We went out to the nearby monastery. They had a bookstore. We bought a book of psalms and started to read psalms together. Well, one thing led to another.... And on my 30th birthday we had a big celebration - with friends. We had our son baptized and our marriage was blessed by a priest. This time in a church. Yup! The whole shebang! (it was all one big "ceremony" - with a nice party afterward)

We eventually came to view the monastery as like a second home. So much of a home that the next Fall, in kindergarten, our son was in the blocks corner, building: Some kid asked: What's that? And after our son replied: A monastery, the kids asks: What's a monastery? They had cows there then (sheep now). Our son helped the monks milk the cows. And they took him to the carpenter shop, where he made some things I still have. One is just a little block of wood that says: I love you, mama. (after he learned to write, of course) Another was what he called the portable cross. Two pieces of wood that fit together - to form a cross. I still have it.

It's things like this that - for me - are so convincing.

It's not just chance.

There's something "out there" ~ inside. Paying attention to us. Drawing us....

At least - that's my experience - and it hasn't just happened once.

Honey Bee on Leek Flower

2009-07-18T01:47:00.006-05:00

Our good friend, stratofrog, is a gifted photographer. And this photo of hers deserves a post all by itself. Today it serves to point us to the work of the honey bee. Look carefully on the flower... The bee is at work.

A long time ago men and women sought the honey of a life of prayer. They went off to the desert and lived as hermits or in small colonies. Later they formed monasteries, based on a rule of life drawn up by St. Benedict. One of Benedict's aphorisms for how the monks should live was: Ora et Labora - which simply means an integrated life. A life of both work and prayer. For prayer, or meditation, you can substitute whatever you use to turn within, to penetrate the sacred in life. Stratofrog's photography, for example, is like a meditation on beauty, depth, poetry - in nature. And sharing that is like a prayer she's made on our behalf.

Every spiritual tradition I know of seems to have turned to poetry as a way of doing what stratofrog can do with a camera. The Vedas and the Upanishads. Buddhist Sutras. Hebrew Psalms. You can find these in every tradition. And many of them are now being put out on the internet, arranged in such a way that you can read small portions of prayer-poems on a daily basis.

On the right sidebar, there's a piece of ironwork I like. The image itself now links to a site which posts Psalms for various Hours of Prayer. You can pick a time of day and choose a psalm or two.

Or you can use the banner just below to go there right now:

Like the Honey Bee in the photo, you can find nectar - in the psalms. And over time ... honey - in your soul.

Greeting of the Myrrh-Bearers

2009-07-15T13:12:00.145-05:00

I love this icon!

It discloses aspects of my work and myself.

Profound compassion for those who suffer:

Myself as the kneeling women come to anoint and reverence.

Like a channel flowing through my heart ~

The Mystery of Suffering itself.

Could it be as well an Icon of the Mystery of the Trinity?

The Mystery of Suffering

2009-07-13T15:25:00.023-05:00

It was Thanksgiving Day. But nobody knew that there. We'd gone to visit my father-in-law because he was gravely ill. He had already gathered his children (all grown) and tearfully asked for their forgiveness - for any wrong he had done them. That was before our trip could be made. I'm sorry we missed it.

My mother-in-law was a saint. And I'm not kidding you when I say that. When she died, some years after her husband, the whole village turned out. The priest spoke of how he had learned so much from her. She was a benefactor and a friend to many. Always quietly, discreetly.

I had asked her for prayers many times. Especially for my work with victims of abuse. I had asked many people actually. Even strangers. Leaving little notes on bulletin boards (the kind where you could leave such a message): "Please pray for victims of abuse and for their therapists." I'm not kidding you.

Was I the one who wanted to ask the Carmelites to pray too? The tiny convent of aging nuns in this obscure village in Andalusia? Friends and recipients of my mother-in-law's kindness and financial assistance. I can't recall who proposed it.

But on that Thanksgiving morning we walked through the narrow streets to the Carmelite convent. My husband. His mother. And I. Through the closed gate. Under the stone arch. Through the wooden doors. Down a short hallway. Into a tiny room with a grille, which looked into another tiny room. Where, after a short wait, two nuns appeared. Women who had been here for decades, I'm sure. Women with little more than a grammar school education, who'd been in this enclosed environment, gradually turning into saints.

I expected my husband or his mother to do the talking. But no.... They turned to me. Everyone was waiting. The two nuns behind the grille. The three of us, on tiny chairs, crowded together on our side of that little grilled window. And in my broken Spanish I briefly told them of my work. Asked them to pray especially for one person. Made up words to convey that she'd been abused, even tortured as a child. That her own mother had participated in this, earning money from her daughter's suffering. That, for her, this defined her worth. At which point I burst into tears and could say no more.

The one nun began speaking. In Spanish. An elderly woman hidden except for her kind face poking through her veil and plain brown robe. I could hardly understand a word. It seemed she spoke at length. And I tried to be polite and pay attention to the stream of words, picking out phrases like " the Big Teresa" and "the Little Teresa" (the foundress of the order and someone also known as "the little flower"). Both had suffered in different ways - and I presume the old nun might have referred to that - but honestly her words were not making much headway. Until she said: "Pedir a Dios para la fe de aceptar el misterio del sufrimiento." She might have repeated them. She must have seen from my expression that they went straight to my heart. That she'd given me what I needed: "Pray to God - for the faith - to accept the mystery of suffering."

Maybe it was something she had learned from the "Big Teresa" and the "Little Teresa". Maybe it was something she had gathered on her own. I will never know. She also gave me some momentoes of these saints - a keychain, a little triptiche. But mostly she gave me those words. I repeat them sometimes. I love the sound of them in Spanish. I can feel her presence, almost, as I say them.

I've followed her advice. I have to say I think it's helped.

When someone suffers, it is their suffering. It belongs to them. No one can take it from them. If they let you in, together you can sit before it - or with it - patient, reverent, accepting, caring, letting it seep into your heart and soul.

There are words you can say. But mostly I think it all comes down to presence.

Suffering is a mystery. And so is presence. I think they complement each other - in some way that is also a mystery.

Heart Streams in Dry Land

2009-07-12T12:28:00.007-05:00

        As I go walking
                  Like a sower
                  Scattering seeds
                  On unknown ground
                  On a misty day
                  In falling rain

        I pull from my inner self
                  (My bursting heart)
                  Feelings
                  Painful and Wonderful

        Casting
                  Words to the Wind
                  With flowing tears
              So deeply held
                  Inside

        A sparkling spring
                  Of sobs
                  Comes rushing forth

        Nurturing pregnant thoughts
                  Wellsprings of life
                  To barren soil
                  In mystery.

        How can
                  My unknown heart
                  Sustain
              Such
                  Painful
                  Treasured
                  Bursts of Glorious Blossoms

        Coloring Parched Desert
                  Rainbowlike
                  After a thunderstorm?

11/21/93

The Gift of Presence

2009-07-09T18:32:00.019-05:00

It is just an ordinary grayish rock, weathered by time and the elements, grainy with texture, its rounded form irregular but comfortable in your hand. There are thousands of similar rocks visible in stream beds in that part of the Catskills. I longed for one, when I first saw them in those stream beds.

It had been gathered for a special purpose and was nestled with its fellows around a small pile of sticks and brush. They lay to one side of a lawn behind a small ordinary house, down a winding lane, far away from public traffic. Behind the lawn, down a steep hill, stood an open field in a clearing of trees.

A group had gathered. Anticipation was building. For the town council of this remote, sparsely settled area, upon learning that the Dalai Lama was expected at the tiny Tibetan monastery within their boundaries, had determined to hold an official welcome. Food and flowers stood ready on tables. Soon the helicopter would land. And the Dalai Lama would walk across the field, up the steep hill, and disappear into the monastery - as it turned out.

But first it was necessary to light the sacred fire. For the traditional smoke signal. And the stone played its role, along with its fellows, circling the fire. Never knowing the guest it honored in an ancient rite.

It was a strange sort of "official welcome" - with the guest of honor relaxing, unseen inside, while guests milled about - chatting and nibbling on exquisite tiny pastries, far from his view. I talked with someone whose path had crossed mine years and years before - though neither of us had known it at the tine. I vividly recall it as a brief but meaningful encounter. He asked about my "path" and I told him the truth: Right then - the only thing I was certain of was "the ground" I was standing on. He urged me to continue my practice.

The crowd outside seemed unsure whether or not to wait around. We'd been given to understand that there would be a chance to "meet" the Dalai Lama. But time dragged on. Nothing seemed to be happening. And many left. It was getting to be early evening on a pleasant summer day.

We were part of a small group still remaining, as we'd been guests of a town alderman - whose stepson went to the college where my husband taught. He chose to ask us. And the wonder of it still amazes me! We'd made the long drive a day or so before. And been welcomed lavishly - by people who lived very simply - in a mobile home - in the woods.

Suddenly, with hardly any warning, we were told to line up if we wanted to meet the Dalai Lama. White scarves were handed out - to present to him - the traditional Tibetan greeting of an honored person. I recall being amazed when my young son joined the line, looking solemn.

As I stood there, waiting, I recall mustering up all the awe and reverence I possessed - to honor this revered and holy man . I believe I prepared a short phrase and I must have said it as I placed the white scarf in his hands. But I honestly don't recall my role at all. It was not until much later, I think, that the experience crystalized for me - into a powerful awareness of what had really occurred in the briefest encounter with this man: The Dalai Lama's manner embodied far more reverence for me than I was capable of reverence for him.

Comprehension of that grew over time. Maybe it's growing still. I have pondered it often.

I believe the Dalai Lama taught me something very profound in that brief moment: The power of the presence of a holy person. The power of a holy person honoring a guest. The true meaning of Namaste. It sounds simple when I say it. But it's one of the most profound things anyone has ever taught me. By his mere presence alone. His manner toward me. I understand now what Jesus was trying to convey. What the Buddha must have conveyed. Why Hindus go to simply sit in the presence of a holy hermit.

Oh... the stone? Somehow before we left I had the presence of mind to walk over to the place where the fire had been. I selected one stone. A stone that fit my hand. I have told this story many, many times. Usually I give the person the stone to hold, as I tell the story.

It's just an ordinary stone. But it is invested with the meaning of that memory. I call it my Dalai Lama Rock. And I consider it holy.

I considered taking a photo of the stone. But where would I put it for such a photo? And how could you know its holiness without touching it... without feeling its weight, its grainy texture, its grayness with flecks of black. Without hearing the story and the gift of holding it at the same time.

The next day our kind hosts took us to a Zen monastery within the same township. It was a place of stunning beauty and serenity.

My stone has no such beauty. It is so ordinary.

Instead, I'm including this clip-art. Because I love it:

I think it testifies to the hidden mysteries all around us - just beneath the surface. But present in the emptiness of an open heart.

A small difference

2009-07-09T11:09:00.001-05:00

It was to the most damaged individuals I always felt drawn - those people who didn't know themselves and fought to keep me from knowing them. People who needed a large commitment of time and caring. The very people our healthcare system lets fall through the cracks. And all my life - even as a child - I reached out to the lonely, those on the fringes, the unwanted, the unloved. And in a small way I have made a difference - but this is a population that does not easily endure relationship. And even for the therapist endurance in the face of such ambivalence is very painful.

And it is in the struggle to reach out that over and over again I have needed to turn to God - or perhaps you could say: God has turned to me.

The Gift of Blessing

2009-07-06T11:21:00.030-05:00

                              A blessing for each
                              A blessing for all
                   Now let abundant blessings fall

                              Upon the present
                              Upon the past
                    A rain of blessings that will last

                               Never forgotten
                               Never unknown
                    God’s blessings find you and lead you home

                               Healing your mind
                               Healing your heart
                    Healing your soul so you won’t be apart

                               Bringing you peace
                               Bringing you love
                    Bringing you solace from heaven above

                    Deep in your heart God’s love will abide
                    Deep in your heart – like a nightlight inside
                    Deep in your heart, you’re safe in this light
                               So close your eyes tight
                               And rest well this night

10-8-93

Loving Kindness Meditation

2009-07-04T21:45:00.016-05:00

I'm saying it for you first - slowly, peacefully....

May you be well, peaceful, and free of suffering.
May no harm come to you.
May no difficulties come to you.
May no problems come to you.

May you always find success.

And may you also have patience, courage, understanding, and determination, to meet and overcome, the inevitable difficulties, problems, and failures in life.

Now you can say it. First, for yourself. Then for me or anyone else. You can say it again and again, moving from the most personal (family members, friends) to those you do not know, to those toward whom you feel neutral, even for enemies or those with whom you are in conflict, and finally for all beings.

This Loving Kindness Meditation comes to me via Kusala Bikshu, a Buddhist monk, whom I met at a conference a few years back. Different versions of this meditation are used by many Buddhists to cultivate compassion and to transform suffering. (I hope you took time to click his name and watch the video of Kusala. Once you meet this man, you never forget him!)

I have found it particularly helpful to say this meditation for someone with whom I am having a conflict. Somehow, if you repeat this - again and again - for such a person, you will find yourself feeling differently toward them. And your meditation, your compassion and beneficence toward them, may allow the conflict to loosen up and dissolve.

Namaste.

No Distance

2009-07-02T21:31:00.022-05:00

She was 73. Yet she looked youthful. Her face was tranquil, seemingly unlined, framed by soft, short hair. She lay there peacefully, her husband sitting in a chair beside her, near the window. There was a serene atmosphere in the hospital room. Nothing to suggest anything extraordinary. Not until I placed my hand upon her brow. And spoke a blessing, willing its reach through voice and touch.

My hand against her forehead seemed to find no resistance. I could feel it's weight, pressing gently, seeking that barrier that usually stands between one person and another, falling deeper and deeper. Yet still it seemed this barrier could not be reached. Or was it breached?

Afterward I felt I had to tell her: You have such depth within you.

Did I imagine it?

Or were there tears of understanding in her eyes?

Raindrops: Like the Evanescence of Life

2009-07-01T00:35:00.001-05:00

Like a dream

Like a fantasy

They are thus

To be regarded

(Zen saying)

I had a blindingly powerful insight once about "emptiness." It's meaning. I heard the meditation bell. It was at a 10 day meditation retreat. And that reverberation.... felt as if it was happening inside me. Or that I was resonating to the bell. (a brass meditation bowl really) And suddenly I realized that the bell could not "resonate" unless it was empty. And that told me something about the "meaning" of being empty oneself.

It gave me a powerful insight, that has never left me. And it shows that learning is not always something you get by having "more." Sometimes it's gotten by having "less." If that makes any sense.

And I suspect nothingness is like "emptiness" if you let it happen to yourself.

In the Stillness Dancing

2009-06-30T20:27:00.020-05:00

"So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."

TS Eliot: Four Quartets

In memory of Lux Umbra Dei, whose Bio said just:

Gratitude! Gratitude!

There are people in life who have a profound effect on us - even though we may know them all too briefly. Their presence in our lives challenges us, hints of depths to which we feel drawn.

John Main - was another (also known to Lux):

Many years ago we lived near Mt. Savior Monastery in upstate NY and we were privileged to hear John Main give a sermon at Mass and speak about meditation. Only once before had I heard someone speak so profoundly, from the heart, in simple words, words which led you into the sacred. He reminded me instantly of hearing Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel speak about the holiness of time, when I was in college. He too had that quality of "knowing" something from the heart - and putting it into the simplest terms, so that each sentence held a universe of meaning. Later I was able to briefly meet the Dalai Lama. And that completed the Trinity for me - three leaders, from different faiths, each one in touch with the deepest heart of Reality, each one able to put a lifetime of practice into the simplest words and actions, as if teaching you from heart to heart.

From a review of John Main's biography:

In The Stillness Dancing describes Main’s life as a journalist, soldier, barrister, and Benedictine monk. His life was a quest for an authentic life of prayer. While a civil servant in India, he met an Indian Swami who taught him to meditate using a mantra (holy word). This form of prayer was taken from him when he entered Ealing Abbey, England. As a novice he was directed to adopt a more “traditional” form of prayer. Much later, after his ordination to the priesthood, John Main discovered that the form of prayer taught by the swami already existed within the mainstream of Western Christianity, but had fallen into disuse. The biography describes how he spent the rest of his life attempting to restore this form of Christian meditation to the central place it once occupied in the Church.

John Main exercised a profound influence on us as well as upon the monastery itself. It was his introduction to meditation that led us, decades later and in a round-about way, to another monastery in the mountains of Colorado - in the dead of winter. It was there, at a meditation retreat, that I came to understand the meaning of "emptiness" ~ when I heard the meditation bell reverberate ~ as if inside myself. And Lux Umbra Dei rejoiced! Gratitude!

One thing leads to another.... It is a wonder to write it all down. Part of this blog's unfolding path ~ a path which is a mystery, even to me.

Focus on the Water

2009-06-30T09:10:00.047-05:00

Let your eye rest on the water. Look deeply at the ripples. See what comes....

It's a gift from stratofrog. And it goosetails, for me, with an experience from long ago. When I stood in the Ganges with Gandhi. Well, not really. But it was as Real as anything could be - when I experienced it. I learned much wisdom. In a very short span. It occurred at a monastery over 30 years ago. It was a great blessing. And this photo, more than anything, provides the entry into that experience.

The monks had invited friends to join them at a workshop. I knew them all, except for the presenter. Part of the workshop involved making a list of spiritual stepping stones and wisdom people. Then we chose one wisdom person with whom to have a conversation - an inner journey down a spiritual well to a place of meeting. I closed my eyes, allowed myself to go down the inner well - mine was round, with stones all the way down, mossy in places, damp, cool, pleasant. Immediately I found myself in the Ganges. I now write my exact words of that experience, speaking to Gandhi:

I don't know quite how to begin. I will fold my hands and bow to you - Gandiji.... It's very peaceful here - even though we are surrounded by others purifying themselves - washing together in the water. I am so aware of the multitudes in this river. .. And yet we are peacefully alone too. I have time to talk to you and you are gracious enough to share this time with me. Pardon me, if I say one thing more about our surroundings. I see now that is it so appropriate to put the bodies of the dead into the river along with the rest of us who bathe here. But I realize as I say this too that you are supposed to be dead and I am supposed to be alive. Yet we are here bathing together. Somehow - in a way I cannot understand - everyone is in this river.

Yes, my daughter. You yourself have said so.

................. long pause..............

Why is it that I am unable to speak more to you?

Silence together, my daughter.

I didn't know I could go down and find silence together.

On earth, I fasted and kept silence one day a week. Here we can do so always.... But we can share as often as you like.

Yes, I see that now. We're all here together. I'm so glad to be home. My tears become part of this river too. Drops of water which reflect. But I can only see the reflections when they've fallen. ~ But then they're gone ~ part of the river now.

Just so, my daughter.

You say so little, Gandhi. You have the gift of listening. Do you think I will ever have it too.

..............Pause............
"In the stillness is the dancing"

(Like a soft echo in my mind, for a while now.)

You yourself have said it. Follow my example.

Summary (afterward) - to myself:

I am afraid I may have missed my opportunity. I had so much I wanted to say - like before you make a long distance call - but when you finally hear the voice - that's all you wanted to hear - just the voice, the comforting feeling of hearing the voice and remaining in its presence.

"In the stillness is the dancing" ~ An allusion to a line from TS Eliot's Four Quartets:

"So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."

Now here's the thing. Although I own a book, whose title rang in my mind, I knew the experience really referenced Eliot's words. (I had purchased the book - for its title, you see.) But there's more. When I searched, just now, for a link to it, I found another book with almost the same title - a biography I didn't know existed. So, why, you might ask, have I just linked to a biography I have never read? Because it concerns a man I was yet to meet - at the same monastery - a man whose impact on me (and others) relates to the title of this blog. A blog yet to be born. A man yet to die. A book yet to be written. A profession I was yet to train for - which had never even entered my mind. And yet... all that meaning was contained in my experience. That. And more, of course.

As TS Eliot writes:

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.

This blog, like life, is a journey. We are on it together....

A hole in the sky - reveals The Mystery

2009-06-29T16:30:00.018-05:00

Photo ~ Courtesy of brotherjohn OEF

A comment below, by my very first visitor to this blog, exactly suits a photo that just arrived this morning:

Through the hole in the sky…a poet once wrote… it is that precise blueness that releases the mystery to me. Seeing and feeling a connection to everything, and nothingness. And golden green thru the trees breaking light into beauty. I feel it in your poems. The Gaze of God is a vast concept through which I look back, cannot answer and feel humbled. The growth of a seedling, yearning to be, and being.

-stratofrog

This mysterious confluence of events somehow "fits" with whatever direction this blog has decided to take. I'm just going along for the ride...

He looked on his servant in her nothingness....

2009-06-28T12:05:00.025-05:00

I.

I looked at my soul.
And my soul looked back at me.

Such poverty
(to see)

And yet
Such majesty
(to be)

I looked at God.
And God looked back at me.

All in an instant
Appeared
A hole: My very soul?

A space into eternity
Vast emptiness - of heavens.

Clear through
what had been
(me).

Full of God's gaze: The Spirit's blaze?
Like laser's trace
My finite self
Erased
Leaving a space
Of limitless grace.

II.

God's love is
A purifying love.

It scours us clean.

Like water
It wears a way.

Clean through.

III.

"He looked on his servant in her nothingness..."

Magnificat, Annunciation song.

I think in our deepest hearts we are all alike. There is a window in us - that opens to eternity - which to me appeared as something like the night sky, full of stars, not just around me, but right through me. As if ... seeking after the Mystery, and coming "face to face" with this mysterious gaze upon us, we are somehow transformed - even replaced by the Mystery itself - or it's trace in us. And maybe, over time, if we have enough such moments, we literally disappear into the Mystery.

Some people, it would seem, want to shut that out. Not just from themselves, but from others too. They have that window (onto eternity) "capacity" - but may choose to ignore it. Or they may shut the window - as if to erase the capacity in themselves. Or worse, some try to shut it down for others too. (Thus missing this great adventure - even depriving the cosmos of a unique "window" into mystery.)

God is just one way of wording it. A mystery beyond our conception. Holy Mystery - whatever is deepest, truest, most transcendent, most real - although most hidden. I used God here because it came as part of the poem, part of the experience. But mostly I prefer terms which veil the mystery. Something which can never be penetrated. Indeed, if we try to penetrate it, or so it seems to me, the Mystery only grows greater - as we ourselves become part of it - or it becomes part of us. Could be both.

Nothingness. It attracts Mystery. And Mystery draws you into nothingness.

IV.

None of us is perfect. Yet this experience taught me that God does not so much look "at us" as "through us". Beyond our imperfections. It's as if, in the gaze of God, our imperfections, our limitations, simply disappear.

We can take comfort in that, I think.

It is a compassionate gaze. A transforming gaze. Nothing to fear.